Harry Potter and the Dragon Chronicles
by vonSchlieffen
Summary: Everyone who knew his story had great expectations of Harry Potter; not all of them were good, and yes, some were terrible, but they were all great. What they never really counted on was what Harry was expecting, and how easy it was for him to decide to show them all how great he could really be. They really should have remembered never to tickle a sleeping dragon.
1. Dragon's Dawn

The unforgiving noonday sun beat down on southern England. Drought laws were in effect, and many of the prized suburban gardens suffered greatly—there would be no All-Southern England Suburban Lawn and Garden Competition this summer. But of course, that didn't mean that proud middle-class homeowners had simply surrendered to the June heat and unfair laws regulating water usage. Never! Rather, they used any means of trickery possible to keep their prized plots looking better than their neighbors' ones. You see, the All-Southern England Suburban Lawn and Garden Competitions were not quite as important as the participants claimed them to be. Oh sure, bragging rights and all that were all well and good, but in the long run, no one really remembered who won those little trophies any given year. A one-time winner of the competition had little cache in regards to their neighborhood social circles and gossip networks.

That was because competition never really ended after the awards were given out (and also because jealousy prevented losers from curtailing their not-so-latent vindictiveness). People always strove to present their best faces to their neighbors, and annually-dispensed titles and little plastic trophies just played a little part in that charade. The unofficial competitions to be considered the best housewife, the best husband, to have the best car, the nicest home, the fattest bank account—to be the best—they never ended, and were much more significant to a family's perceived and actual long-term success.

Socioeconomic standing.

The English middle-class had really grown in the past decades. Desperate to leave behind their working-class roots, businessmen and housewives fashioned new identities for their families that reflected their bourgeois desires. But there was also more to it than that. There was something sinister in how identity was created and managed. The games people played were ruthless, and their players were vicious. Neighborly smiles were nothing more than masks to cover up what would otherwise be sarcastic smirks, and company family cookouts were battlegrounds for position and rewards. It was do-or-die.

These were lessons Harry Potter knew well. Not that he ever really got the chance to employ them. He was a horrible little menace to the community, after all. A threat to all that was good and decent and virtuous! …well, maybe not that last one, just now, but eventually he probably would be. And yet, despite the fact that everyone thought him to be a deranged criminal, that he wasn't allowed to take books home from the school library in fear that he'd destroy them, and that he often daydreamed in class and frequently outright ignored the teacher during lessons in lieu of doing something he thought was actually worth his time, it was obvious that he was by head and shoulders the smartest person most of them would ever meet. And he was only ten years old.

(Of course, it didn't help that they stuck him in classes for problem children with any number of deficiencies and disabilities, but he had always preferred learning on his own, anyway).

Not that he was a bookworm or anything like that; he was simply quite the little intellectual. Learning just came to him naturally—it felt like his mind was an unstoppable force, always on the go, coming up with new ideas and questions and answers, and soaking up information like he was born to do it; it was like a storm. But instead of losing himself to the chaos of his mind, Harry embraced his nature, knowing he was much better off with the constant hum of possibilities and questions instead of the grey complacency that blinded everyone else to the wide, colorful, intelligent world.

Mathematics was a tried and true companion; problem sets, numbers and variables and complicated shapes and abstract concepts and theorems and axioms and proofs were understood and manipulated with ease. Stories of the great ancient natural philosophers and modern physicists who seemingly bent reality and nature to their will and discovered the deepest secrets of the universe fascinated him. Epic mythologies and fictional tales by renowned authors opened up entirely new worlds for Harry to explore, where his powerful mind could be unshackled from his dreadful existence in Little Whinging and given free reign. His imagination ran wild. Lost in his mind, it was as though he could spend entire days dreaming of greater things—of a reality that transcended the oblique mundaneness of suburbia and what passed for normal.

It was also a coping mechanism.

In his little dream world, interacting with great heroes of literature and science provided some quite necessary respite. They were more real to him as people than were the shallow, cruel caricatures of that inhabited his grim reality, those who wouldn't know talent and greatness if it repeatedly hit them on the head with a shovel (which was actually no more than so many of those disgusting simpletons deserved!). Sometimes, when he was feeling particularly lost, he would try to imagine his world as one of his heroes would see it just so he wouldn't feel like he was the only one who knew there ought to be something more to life than being _normal_.

Someone like Albert Einstein would condemn the lack of creativity and the open oppression that was so very palpable in the stale air of the sidewalked streets and manicured lawns, and then he would expound about the irrationality of trying to adhere to an unfalsifiable and horribly limiting notion such as normality. (It's all relative, you know?)

And then, of course, Lewis Carroll—one of Harry's favorite authors, incidentally—would end up walking around the neighborhood in the middle of the street, looking for all the world as if he was nothing more than a meandering drunk and not the notorious genius he really was, and go on speaking nonsense in the face of the incomprehensibility of the lifeless and colorless madness that was Little Whinging, and would then decry the lack of opportunities to be curious—because curiosity was a mortal sin in this town. And really, what else could someone do when confronted with the dire sense of _wrongness_ that was Little Whinging than walk in the middle of the street and weep for all the lost souls?

But the wrongness about Little Whinging wasn't always obvious, of course. Sometimes it would sneak up on you and bite you on the nose, or adjust your blanket while you slept so that your toes would freeze in the night. It was the sideways glares that everyone gave and other little tells that betrayed their cruel thoughts. That was the wrongness that was percolating just beneath the surface of everything _normal_. Harry knew from those signs that all those other people were just like the Dursleys in the worst possible way.

They hated him because he was a freak. Because his clothes were always too big, his hair was too messy, his attitude not _quite_ right. And also because everyone else said he was a bad seed. He was a risk to their way of life—everything they had worked so hard to achieve. His success and happiness would mean that _their_ entire lives were nothing but lies, that _they_ had fallen for cheap, thoughtless, and demeaning materialistic propaganda dished out by the rich, greasy barons who had long ago enslaved consumers in ways that were no longer feasible for politicians.

They looked at him and saw a glimpse of the truth about their horrible lives, and they hated him for it. They didn't know him at all—and indeed seemed to prefer that things stay that way—and yet they had judged him and found him wanting. Truthfully, Harry had expected nothing less. He had never been one to put much stock in hope, especially as he had yet to meet anyone who actually seemed to be worth the air they breathed—the same air that _he_ did, that he had worked so hard to earn his share of! It was hardly like any of those worthless idiots would notice how unworthy they were anyway.

He had figured out long ago that most people's deductive capabilities were sorely lacking. They relied solely on rumor and speculation and their own underdeveloped and corrupted sense of morality to see, when often the truth was staring right back in their ugly faces, only for it to be ignored because they would rather find solace in the familiar and justify their complacency than rejoice in the unknown and embark on a mission of discovery. They were willfully ignorant. In Harry's opinion, it was one of the worst crimes of humanity, an abject sin—their fear of accepting the obvious, real truth staring them in their faces, just because they either couldn't or, in most cases, because they wouldn't comprehend it. Harry was always observing, his understanding of reality changing frequently, and it was just one thing of many that made him different… _special_.

Harry's abilities of observation were well-honed, especially for one so young. He attributed this evenly to his education and necessity. His talent for observation was quite useful, after all, seeing as it enabled him first to predict likely behavior from small clues, giving him ample time to scheme about how he would avoid his numerous enemies and, perhaps, eventually, one day get out from under the Dursley's terrible thumbs so that he could do something amazing with his life, and prove to the world that he was worthy of his talents. Maybe he would be an Astronaut, or a mad scientist, or a writer. Something special, something that _normal_ people could never hope to do.

But not all of his achievements were academic or strategic. He had also singlehandedly won the All-Southern England Suburban Lawn and Garden Competition for three years now. Of course _his_ name was never on the ugly little trophy; rather, it was his Aunt Petunia who got all the credit for his hard work. But that was okay—he got the satisfaction of knowing that he had done something great, something _she_ couldn't do. And they both knew it. He was infinitely better than she and her ugly, fat, brutish family could ever be. Which was probably another reason why they and seemingly everyone else hated him so much.

This truth comforted Harry at night.

Whatever. He only had a little over five years to go until he turned sixteen and could get out of Surrey—out of his hellish prison—and make it on his own without fear of being forced back. He would never again have to suffer through life, forced as he was to live in a sterile, colorless community of soulless, bumptious suburbanites. He would be free to live as he saw fit, someplace where there was variety and intelligence and creativity, and then he could show everyone his potential, prove to those bigoted pricks that constantly harassed him that _he_ was great, and that they _weren't_. He had to make a name for himself—rise above the masses of unwashed dregs so that he was untouchable.

He had had to learn his lessons early on, naturally.

His relatives—no, not that, his _relations_ —had taught him well. Not that that was what they set out to do of course. The Walrus, greasy and fatty Vernon, had tried to 'stamp the freakishness out of him.' Which meant, of course, that he could and in fact frequently did justify any number of horrible, inhumane punishments; after all, he was only doing what he thought was right and was limited only by his conscience—it was a shame he didn't really have one, though.

(And more importantly, Harry didn't think the odd things that happened around him and the few little tricks he could do were freakish or unnatural. They were pretty cool! And more importantly, they were _useful_. He had been cultivating his talents for quite some time. (In secret, of course—it wouldn't do if others knew of what fantastic feats he was capable). And by Zeus was he capable! He was really excellent at moving things without touching them—he deliberately shied away from calling it telekinesis—which helped greatly with his chores.

A few times, he had even managed to set some things on fire, before quickly dousing the flames before anyone noticed. And teleportation?! Ha! How else would he have managed to get all the way to the public library on the other side of town? And that's not even counting all the other circumstances where Harry hadn't meant to do anything at all, and yet, he _knew_ he was responsible for what happened. He was simply having trouble replicating those other feats, but he never stopped trying.)

And the Horse, sour-milk and moldy lemon Petunia, she always hurt him the most, though rarely ever physically—save for the odd frying pan when he messed up the food or slap when he said something particularly amusing—it was instead the total lack of affection she showed to him. Harry was completely unloved, and it left a black mark on his soul that he feared would never go away, despite the fact that he knew he was better than all of _them_ , and that he should be above such a petty emotion like love—especially if it was anything like what the Dursleys showed each other.

And the Whale, sticky rotten-apple Dudley, well, he was just pathetic, and reminded Harry that perhaps it was a good thing he was never considered 'one of the family', if that was how he might have turned out.

As for bloody Marge, the Bitch, the less said the better.

Exhausted, Harry slunk inside from the burning sun and made his way to the sink in the sterile, perfectly organized kitchen to wash his hands and prepare dinner. He was making a roast, and it was going to be delicious. He had been marinating the meat in a red wine and olive oil and basil mix all day and now had to put it in the oven for an hour and a half. The carrots he had just picked outside were cleaned and cut into strips, and tossed in some foil along with a dusting of basil and olive oil and sent into the oven.

Two dozen red potatoes had been boiled, and then were subject to the rather arduous task of being mashed manually, butter and milk mixed in with the clumpy starch, with flakes of potato skin added for decoration and texture, and some bits of garlic for flavor, and finally covered with foil to set on the counter. Inside the icebox, plastic wrap protected the meringue pie that had been whipped up after breakfast—chances were high that it was big enough that there'd be some scraps left over for a midnight feast, which was exactly as Harry had wanted, because he absolutely loved lemons. As far as vices went, he figured it wasn't such a bad one.

The front door _burst_ open.

"Pet! I'm home!" Vernon bellowed.

Apparently Vernon had a bad day—he was sounding a bit too masculine, his voice rather deep and missing its usual wheezing quality—so he had decided to overcompensate more than usual.

"Oh Vernon, dear," Petunia cried, "I'm so happy your home. I've got dinner just about ready for you."

Harry stifled a _growl_.

The front door _slammed_ shut.

"Good," Vernon grunted.

 _So ends the charade_ , Harry thought. But he expected it, of course. The Dursleys couldn't hold their façade of perfection for very long, and Vernon, of all people, ought not to be tested when he was in a mood.

It was a good thing that dinner would be ready soon enough.

gh

Unfortunately Harry wouldn't get to have any of the meringue that he had made, or indeed any of the other food. Vernon had taken the leftovers for himself, despite Dudley's whining. Apparently he had a _really_ bad day. But now Harry was ensconced in his cupboard, likely safe until the Dursleys went to bed, when he could find something to eat. Once he had served dinner, he had immediately left the kitchen to avoid provoking Vernon's temper, and went back to finish pruning one of the rosebushes. He certainly lucked out.

The television switched off, and a low, awkward groaning came from the living room. Harry swallowed a laugh. He was certain it was nothing untoward—he knew for a fact that Vernon was having some sort of trouble that prevented that particular adult pastime and that had made him more ornery than usual, despite the fact that Harry had overheard Petunia reassuring her husband that 'it was fine' and that he was 'still a man'. Harry at first thought the whole conversation was rather peculiar, and it spurred him to steal away for an afternoon and browse the county library's card catalog to answer his questions. Needless to say, Harry was mortified, but also intrigued. So, for a soon-to-be eleven year old boy, he was strangely well-acquainted with the forbidden knowledge of human anatomy and sexual reproduction.

But back to Vernon's groaning.

The fat bastard was likely having trouble getting off the couch again, and Harry was forced to swallow another laugh at the mental image of Vernon rolling his fat rolls around the couch like some morbidly obese, overturned turtle. He could never imagine his uncle as anything other than a pathetic slob, a waste of space, a leech, and all those things that he always accused Harry of being. It was quite ironic, in fact, because Harry was the most active person in the house, and contributed the most to the household except for when it came to paying expenses; it served to hearten Harry when he second-guessed himself. And sometimes Harry thrived off of that nourishment. But of course, he needed real food too.

Hence, he learned several years previously how to break out of his cupboard when it was locked. Harry called up the image of the sliding lock on the outside of the door and focused on it intently. He could feel that strange and invigorating power rumbling through his blood like an electric current, and he put his hand on the door and forced the current out, thinking ' _unlock_!' There was the sound of metal _grinding_ on metal and a soft _snap_ , and Harry knew he had succeeded. One more lock to go. But it would be much more difficult.

The lock itself ordinarily required a key, and the locking mechanism was encased in metal, so one would have no idea just what exactly to do by simply looking at it. It took a month for Harry to figure out how to free himself after the lock was installed, and it left him with such a headache that he didn't even have the will to go to the kitchen and get himself something to eat for another hour. He knew he had to figure out a better way.

That was the first time Harry had stolen from some place not in Number 4—excepting the school cafeteria, of course (but that didn't really count, did it?). It was a lock just like the one on his cupboard door, something genteel-looking called a rim lock (because even in their cruelty the Dursleys couldn't afford not to put on airs of sophistication), and a small flat-head screwdriver. At first he felt bad about the theft—he didn't like it when people stole his things, after all—but it was necessary, he had reminded himself, so he got over his guilt quickly .

Harry didn't feel at all guilty that he had a horde of money hidden deep within his cupboard that he'd snuck away from the Dursleys over the years, in addition to the stolen toys, clothes, an old plastic watch, several books, and squirreled away non-perishable food for emergencies, so what was a small lock compared to hundreds of Pounds and things necessary to keep boredom at bay and ensure that Harry's basic needs were met almost adequately? So after three days of work, he had managed to take apart the lock, study the insides, and could make the pieces move without touching them. After that, it was quite easy to work his trick, now that he knew what he had to manipulate.

 _Click_.

He slowly swung the door open and crept outside. It was close to midnight, he saw, looking at the ridiculous, _ticking_ grandfather clock that Petunia had bought from an antique store. Harry thought that its antique quality was rather diminished by the fact that most of the other loathsome housewives had also bought suspiciously similar-looking antique grandfather clocks from the same store, and they were all conveniently visible from the street. Harry felt a great disdain for all of those people and their sickening affectations, but he wasn't about to let that get him sidetracked.

Opening the refrigerator, Harry spotted the previous night's dinner in a Tupperware hidden behind the milk. He smirked. It was still there. Reveling in his small victory over his idiot relations, Harry quickly devoured the three roasted chicken legs rubbed with herbs and lemon juice. He was a _really_ good cook. Finishing, he replaced the Tupperware in the refrigerator on Dudley's shelf, and drank straight from the jug of milk. Do not let it be said that Harry Potter could not be vindictive.

Of course, Harry rationalized his vindictive behavior and the thrill he got from it with the fact that there would be no evidence from his midnight feast if he didn't use a glass, and so it was all the better for him. Nowhere near satisfied but nonetheless out of safe options, Harry closed the door and crept out of the kitchen. Pushing open the swinging kitchen door, he came face to face with a purple-faced walrus holding the cursed tawse Marge had once used on her vicious dogs, in whose eyes Harry saw hatred, and also the pain that was about to be visited upon him.

"Oh, shit," Harry mumbled.

He had been caught.

hg

"Put some cover up on that eye!" Petunia _screeched_ , the television _blasting_ in the background.

Harry Potter did not have a good last three days. After getting caught sneaking around in the kitchen, he had been in considerable pain, locked away thoroughly in his cupboard as he was, and was dutifully ignored as two more locks were outfitted to the cupboard door. Vernon had certainly not let up even after Harry had started moaning out in pain, which was quite extraordinary, considering just how high Harry's tolerance for pain was.

It was likely that Harry's reaction only spurred Vernon's drunken rage, now that he thought about it. The day after the attack he spent mostly in a haze, and just lying on his stomach wishing for the pain to stop, and only did he really wake up after Dudley was jumping on the stairs in celebration of his imminent birthday. He had gingerly checked himself over. There was definitely something wrong with his ribs, and his nose was broken, too. Again. And his back? Ugh.

(But that's what is to be expected when a four hundred pound beast tosses a seventy pound boy onto a flight of stairs so as to be given 'a proper beating.' Harry had some practice falling _down_ stairs, but none falling _up_ them. Admittedly, it was an oversight on his part—one that he would have to correct post haste.)

That was why he now found himself lightly applying some of his aunt's make-up to his face. One had to maintain appearances in public, and all that rot.

Harry wasn't sure if he was glad that the crazy old cat lady Mrs. Figg had broken her leg or not. On the one hand, it would get him out of Surrey for the day, and that was always nice. On the other, his injuries still hurt like a bitch, and he would also have to spend the day with the Dursleys and day-old urine stain Piers Polkiss as they celebrated 'precious Diddydums' most special day', or what a normal person might call Dudley's eleventh birthday.

But fine. He'd covered up pain, before. He had a perfect mask; a testament to the famed English stiff upper-lip stereotype. It was polite and aloof. He'd worked hard cultivating it. And it would certainly come in useful today—not just because it'd allow him to cover up his pain, but because he figured he might actually enjoy a trip to the zoo, and Harry knew better than to show any positive emotion when the Dursleys were around.

Things were better that way.

"Yes, Aunt Petunia."

gh

Truly, Harry thought he would have liked the zoo very much, had he actually been able to observe the exhibits for any reasonable amount of time. As it was, Dudley was sorely disappointed. And so was Harry.

"Mum!" the little shit _whined_ , "Why are they so boring?"

 _Really_ , Harry thought, _they're in a cage_!

Petunia looked at her son piteously. "We'll just have to keep moving, hopefully one of these filthy animals will be doing something exciting, okay Diddy?"

Dudley stomped on the ground, letting out something between a _groan_ and a _whine_ , and ran through the Big Cats Zone in the London Zoo and into the Reptile House, while the rest of the party was left trailing after him.

Needless to say, Harry was disgusted with their thoughtlessness, but he had come to expect as much.

The Reptile House was, admittedly, much more interesting than what else Harry had seen that day. The snakes were moving, at least.

The Reptile House was designed to look like it was cut into a huge rock. The inside was quite dark, except for the large heat lamps that covered the animals' enclosures. There were nozzles that released sprays of water into the room for some reason, so it was quite humid because of the late-afternoon heat, and Harry was again thankful he wasn't allowed to get an ice cream because it would have dripped all over his hand like it did Dudley's.

There were also animal noises coming from the speakers. Wild _growls_ and bird calls, in addition to the occasional _tinkling_ of rain. Perhaps they were trying to create a certain ambiance? Something like a jungle, perhaps? Whatever was the point, they failed. The whole place was a loud, dark, sticky mess, and you couldn't walk without tripping over something.

 _Though that could be what a jungle is actually like_ , Harry reasoned.

He walked unnoticed through the throng of disgusting idiots as they complained about the heat, and spied the various snakes moving about in their enclosures. Off in the distance he could hear his cousin yelling and pounding heavily on a pane of glass that was probably the only thing keeping him from being eaten. The glass _rattled_ in warning.

Well, maybe Harry could hope just this once….

One snake in particular caught his eye. It was massive. Humongous. And it had an entire tree to rest its body on. He walked over to the glass and smiled at the snake, but it appeared to be sleeping. He looked over at the bronze plaque.

 ** _Python Reticulatus_**

 ** _Burma_**

 ** _Captured 1983_**

He turned back to the Python, finding it had woken up and was now staring at Harry strangely.

"Oh, uh, hello," Harry said.

Amazingly, the Python flicked its tail in response.

Harry was floored.

"C-can you understand me?" he gasped out.

The Python nodded its head.

Harry's face lit up. "Whoa! That's so cool." He cast a glance around to make sure no one noticed him talking to the snake in case it was weird. "Do you…do people speak to you often?"

It shook its head.

Perhaps Harry had found a kindred spirit in the enormous serpent.

"Huh, well I've never spoken to a snake before. And I know what that's like," he said. "I mean, being ignored, or looked over. But that's okay, you know? We're special."

The snake just stared at him.

Harry looked around the enclosure. It really was quite large, not at all like his cupboard. "At least they feed you here, yeah?"

The snake slithered closer to Harry and raised its head until it was at eye level with him.

"You know, you're a really pretty snake. I've never—"

"MUM! MUM! Look! Come quick! Look what the snake is doing!" Dudley _squealed_.

Harry turned to the left, only to be bowled over by his obese cousin. He landed in a heap of pain on the hard cement ground, and was completely ignored by the exhibitors as they watched Dudley shout obnoxiously at the python.

Harry glared at Dudley, rage bubbling in his gut. _The little bastard! He doesn't even care that he hurt me!_ _No one cares! They just ignore me! I'm trapped just like that snake!_

One last time Dudley went to pound on the glass, seemingly only to fall through and into the enclosure.

The glass had disappeared!

Screams rent the air as Dudley _splashed_ into the pit and the fully grown Python slid out of its housing. Harry thought it was big before, but up close he knew he was completely dwarfed by it. Its strong muscles writhed on the floor, making Harry take an aggrieved look at his own scrawny, spider-bitten arms momentarily as the rest of its body tumbled heavily out of its home.

Harry just stared at the snake, unafraid and absolutely mesmerized.

He had set if free!

The snake looked at him again. "Thanks!" it hissed.

Harry gave a weak laugh. "Anytime."

The snake moved away, heading towards the light of the sun as it hissed amusedly at the people scurrying all about in panic.

Harry stood up and glanced around. All the other snakes in the Reptile House were staring at him, which unnerved Harry greatly. Was he expected to free them too? Perhaps they were looking for a leader to start a revolution? That might actually be fun….

Out of nowhere, a great force once again bowled him over, giving Harry another unwelcome reminder of his injuries as he gave a silent cry. He gingerly looked up to see the walrus hurling his great girth over the railing in an attempt to rescue his pathetic son who was _wailing_ in terror.

Harry couldn't help it, he laughed.

The scene was so ridiculous. One obese man was sweating profusely as he heaved his enormous stomach and tried to jump into the snake pit. One obese preteen was _flopping_ about in a foot of water as though he were drowning. One wretched horse-woman was screaming her head off about her precious baby boy as she swatted her small handbag about her feet as though to deter the monstrous, man-eating snake. As _if_ it would condescend to eat her! Ha!

Vernon had almost succeeded in entering the enclosure, but made a mistake when he perched himself on the ledge to catch his breath and swayed…right off and onto the hard floor.

Harry was having the time of his life.

Eventually, the zoo keepers rushed onto the scene, looking quite flabbergasted.

They knew it was going to be a long day.

Two hours later they were all in the car. Piers had been given the front passenger's seat as Petunia wanted to huddle around 'poor Diddykins' and seemingly tried to squeeze the life out of her son as they both cried. Harry had since reapplied his blank mask, so he was able to suppress his amusement at the scene the two idiots were making.

Vernon was still purple from when he fell.

About twenty minutes from Little Whinging, Piers careened his rat-like face to look back at Harry with a smirk that made dread pool in his stomach.

The bastard then decided to open his nasty little mouth and commented snidely, "Did you see what Potter was doing to the snake, Mr. Dursley? He was talking to it! I swear he was talking to it! _Hissing_! And then the glass disappeared, just like magic."

Vernon almost crashed the car.

Petunia screamed and whipped her head around to look at Harry, eyes narrowed in hate.

Harry knew he was going to get it when they got back to Number 4. There was nothing he could do.

In the front of the car, Vernon eyed Harry through the rear-view mirror like a predator and let out a _roar_.

hg

Perhaps a week later, the cupboard door was swung open. A bony hand reached in and yanked hard on Harry's arm, pulling him from the cupboard and into the bright hallway.

He weakly opened his eyes and saw a tall, thin shadow that he figured for Petunia. It was really the best he could do. He hadn't healed yet, and his sudden exit from his dark cupboard into the bright hallway was hurting his eyes. His head was also pounding like it had been put to a jackhammer. His chest was horribly tight and he was having trouble breathing. His stomach felt like it had been twisted and rung out like a wet cloth. His back and legs burned from the lashings. His left hand dangled uselessly from his broken wrist, but the break to his right forearm hurt the most; it was the reason why Harry could hardly contain his cries of pain. Damn Dudley's Smelting's Stick!

Had Harry been more coherent, he would have recognized the look of disgust on his Aunt's face. It wasn't disgust at Harry's pitiful sight—she quite thought he deserved what he got—rather, his horrible stench. He hadn't been let out of the cupboard for almost eight days, and had soiled himself. Petunia couldn't ignore it for any longer, lest the smell linger.

She grabbed Harry by the back of his shirt and hauled him out the back door, across the patio and onto the grass. He lay there moaning in agony as the sun beat down upon his pale, clammy skin. His fever had been running high for several days and accounted for a great deal of his delirium.

He was shocked out of his stupor when hot water hit him full in the face. Harry bit back a scream as he instinctively raised his hands to protect himself and aggravated his injuries. The hot water soon gave way to bitingly cold water, but that was hardly any consolation for Harry.

It still _hurt!_

He let out a low groan.

"Get up, boy!" Petunia commanded. "And keep quiet! Don't let the neighbors hear you."

Harry gave Petunia his most hateful look as he sat up painfully.

"Take your clothes off! You're filthy!" she commanded as she hit his face with the jet of water again.

Harry doubted he would ever manage to take off his clothes again judging by the amount of pain he was in. Still, he had to try. Harry wasn't one to surrender to anything.

Slowly, and ignoring Petunia's recriminations, Harry used his left hand to remove his shirt. Pain seared through his whole arm, and he thought his hand might fall off. But it was better than using his right arm—he didn't even want to imagine how much that would hurt him.

The too-large shirt was sopping wet and was like leather as it stuck to his skin. He pulled up at the front hem, trying to maneuver it so that he could use his elbow to lift most of the shirt and ease the tension off his broken wrist. When his elbow caught the hem, he jacked his arm up so that it was parallel to the ground and quickly slipped out his left hand from the short sleeve. He could do this. He had felt worse pain. He shimmied the shirt over his head and was thankful that when another spray was aimed at his face it hit the shirt instead and made a strange muffled noise, almost like the sound of a large wave echoing around in a cave.

It was quick work to divest himself of his shirt from that point. So he stood up, his boney, black and blue and pale upper body shining in the afternoon light.

Petunia looked at him disgustedly, as though it was his fault for getting hurt. She aimed the hose at his injuries.

Harry kept his eyes shut tight.

Hiding his agony just to spite the wretched woman, Harry took a deep breath, exhaling shakily, and undid the ugly belt he had been given. It was so large that it wrapped around him almost twice, and Harry had even had to make holes in it just so he could fasten it. He pulled at the worn leather strap a bit more.

Harry was beginning to numb against the pain, now, but he'd never complain about that.

With the belt undone, the ragged, cavernous trousers fell down and pooled around his thin ankles, leaving only his thin shorts to cling to him. Suddenly, Harry felt horribly exposed, and he brought his right arm to his chest instinctively. It wasn't a feeling he liked at all….

"Hurry up!" Petunia yelled.

Harry looked at her incredulously.

 _Sadistic bitch_ , he mentally screamed.

And perhaps she heard him, because Harry got another face-full of water.

Clenching his jaw and raising his chin defiantly, even as his stomach clenched, Harry pushed down his underwear with the tips of his fingers. They were loose to begin with—and were the only things the Dursleys had ever bought him—so they fell to the ground with the rest of his clothes.

Harry tried not to let the awful, suffocating, heavy shame that he felt destroy him, even as Petunia shocked his whole naked, scared, battered, pathetic, and weak body with the hard jet of freezing water as he turned on the spot. His body protested against his movements, but there was nothing he could do until she released him from his humiliation.

The last time he had been hosed off like this was when he was eight and had teleported for the first time ever on the school roof in view of his cousin, and had been left to rot in his cupboard for several days after being thrashed thoroughly. He completed his third spin and was having difficulty keeping from shivering violently. Another hard splash to the face, and finally, the water was turned off.

Harry stared hard into Petunia's eyes, wondering just what kind of sick pleasure she took from this act, and was sucked in. He saw an image of himself being hit repeatedly with a frying pan, he felt her rage and her hatred of him—like he was breathing in its potency—and for the first time, he was actually scared of what she might do to him. It was horribly intense. He sucked in a sharp breath and was quickly back in his own head as though the last minute had never happened, and it was obvious she was ignorant of the intrusion.

 _All the better_ , Harry figured. He had never done mind-reading like that before—he'd only ever gotten short flashes of images, or quick thoughts and words, or indications of deceit, never whole scenes or bursts of emotion. It was intriguing, and he hoped to replicate it—it offered too many advantages for Harry not to try.

But there were more pressing things at hand. Like, for instance, what he was going to do about his broken bones, and whether or not his aunt was going to beat him to death with cookery.

She snarled at him and walked back into the house, leaving Harry to ponder not for the first time just what he ever did to deserve such a horrible life.

gh

On Friday, three days later, Harry was well on his way to being healed. His ribs and stomach no longer ached, his wrist was more or less mended, his head had long since stopped pounding, and he could certainly ignore the now-dull constant throbbing in his arm.

Harry was back to his regular chores now that his unusual rate of healing had finally taken care of the worst damage. He had yet to figure out if the healing was a blessing or a curse, but supposed it didn't really matter in the grand scheme of things. It wasn't like he expected to be horribly injured after he escaped from the Dursleys. Still favoring his right arm, Harry went about his work as usual. He was to mow the lawn, and then apply the fertilizer. Weed the garden, and then apply the fertilizer. All the while ensuring that nothing whatsoever was tarnished, under threat of pain.

Harry scoffed at that.

As if he'd allow _his_ garden and _his_ lawn to wither.

After an hour of mowing the lawn meticulously so that he could get the right kind of criss-cross patterns in the grass, he had opened the shed to put the lawnmower away, only for a brown owl to land on the handlebar.

"Okay," he said slowly, "uh, hello?"

The owl _hooted_ at him, and stuck out its leg. There was a letter attached.

 _How odd_.

Cautiously, Harry untied the letter from the owl's leg, and before Harry could even _hoot_ back, the owl sped away from him.

"What?" he asked dumbly as the owl seemed to grow smaller and smaller in the sky.

Harry returned his gaze to the letter in his hand.

 _Mr. H. Potter,_

 _The Cupboard_ _under the Stairs,_

 _4 Privet Drive,_

 _Little Whinging,_

 _Surrey_

It was addressed to him!

"What the hell…." he mumbled.

Suddenly, the back door opened up and his aunt yelled at him for wasting time, and he hurriedly stashed the letter in his waistband. He chose to ignore her as she ranted, and instead focused on the concept of wasting time. Harry didn't think it was possible to waste time—he was always doing something, after all, and it wasn't like he was the only one who existed in time, which meant that billions of people were doing things all over the world who were being obviously productive!

So no, definitely not possible to waste time—and put the phrase down as one of the many ridiculous things snobby suburbanites accuse others of doing because they're afraid that if they examine their own lives honestly they'd find that they themselves are the monsters they accuse others of being.

Oh, Petunia was done haranguing him. Harry nodded hurriedly to show that, yes, he had heard her and that, no, he wouldn't do it again. It was best to play the obedient beast for the next few days if he was hoping to avoid another thrashing.

The door slammed shut.

Harry turned around so that his back was to the house and he pushed the mower into the shed, mumbling rudely. Harry was keenly aware of the letter that was stuck between his waste and his underwear, but he wasn't about to risk Petunia seeing it.

Tucked away under the rosebushes, Harry whipped out the letter and stared at it again, only to come to several conclusions, none of which made him feel better. For one thing, someone apparently knew where he slept—which was a problem. No one but he and the Dursleys were supposed to know that, and if Harry knew anything, it was that there was no way they would tell anyone of their treatment of him. Which meant that someone was spying on him! That was unnerving, but he'd think about that later.

He flipped the letter over. On the back there was a strange coat of arms with a lion, snake, eagle, and what looked like a badger, some Latin, and the word 'Hogwarts'.

"Someone likes to drink," Harry chuckled at the funny name.

He carefully _ripped_ open the envelope and pulled out the letter. It was written on parchment.

"What the fuck?"

HOGWARTS SCHOOL _of_ WITCHCRAFT _and_ WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore

 _(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,  
Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)_

Dear Mr. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.

Yours sincerely,

 _Minerva McGonagall_

Deputy Headmistress

Blinking rapidly, Harry turned to the second page.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL _of_ WITCHCRAFT _and_ WIZARDRY

UNIFORM

First-year students will require:

1\. Three plain work robes (black)

2\. Three sweaters (black or grey)

3\. Four collared shirts (white)

4\. Four slacks (black or grey)

5\. Two Hogwarts ties

6\. Five pairs of knee-length socks (black)

7\. One pair of round-toed leather shoes (black)

8\. One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear

9\. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)

10\. One winter cloak (black, with silver fastenings)

Please note that all pupils' clothes should carry name tags.

COURSE BOOKS

All students should have a copy of each of the following:

 _The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1)_

by Miranda Goshawk

 _A History of Magic_

 _by Bathilda Bagshot_

 _Magical Theory_

 _by Adalbert Waffling_

 _A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration_

 _by Emeric Switch_

 _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_

 _by Phyllida Spore_

 _Magical Drafts and Potions_

 _by Arsenius Jigger_

 _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_

 _by Newt Scamander_

 _The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection_

 _by Quentin Trimble_

OTHER EQUIPMENT

1 wand

1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)

1 set glass or crystal phials

1 telescope

1 set brass scales

Students may also bring, if they desire, an owl OR a cat OR a toad.

PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS

ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICK

Yours sincerely,

Lucinda Thomsonicle-Pocus

Chief Attendant of Witchcraft Provisions

"What the _fuck_?!" he yelled.

It was some sort of sick joke. It had to be. There was no way this was real. Was he supposed to be some sort of wizard or something? Ha! The Dursleys must have…what? They weren't smart enough to pull off a stunt like this. And they would never have anything to do with something related to imagination and freakishness, even if it was to spite Harry.

 _Freakishness_.

No. Impossible. Vernon's just a moron. There's no way… No! He wasn't a witch. _Or_ a wizard. He was Harry. Yes. Just Harry.

Harry shifted in his seat.

There was surely some logical explanation for all of the things he could do, even if he himself didn't really understand how he could do them. Really. There were people all over the world who claimed to be telekinetic. He sighed, reminding himself that those people were charlatans and those who believed them were idiots.

But he wasn't a fraud. He could _actually_ do amazing things. Maybe… It would certainly explain a lot. He had always known he was special, just not… _that_ special.

And since when was he considering this?!

There was no way the Dursleys—

 _Them_!

They knew! They had to know! He had only ever known their hatred and their jealousy. But it was more than that. Whenever something strange happened… They were _afraid_ of him. Afraid of his power—his gift. That realization simmered his anger. He had an advantage now. A physical—no, _magical_ advantage. Never again would they hurt him, or starve him, or work him to the bone. He was in control now. He would harness his power to help himself, since no one else ever had.

Yes. It was certainly about time that they suffered his vengeance in a more appreciable manner; there would be no more of his subtle sabotaging of the Dursleys' lives, so they would either learn to fear him, or…well, he'd think of something appropriate. (He was a genius after all.) And he would show all of his enemies why they should never have harmed him, why they should be afraid of him. He would show them all how great he was, how much better than them he was. Nothing would stop him, because he wasn't a freak—he was a wizard! And he would be the best wizard in the world!

He could feel the current of energy flowing through him. It was hot, and heady. It made his hair stand on end. It was magic. _His_ magic. Oh yes. He could feel it, waiting to be released. So, he would buy a magic wand, would go to this Hogwarts and learn his craft. Maybe he'd even get a toad or two! He could do _anything_ , now…now that he had magic.

hg

Several hours later, Harry was locked away in his cupboard, having come to several more conclusions since the revelation behind the rosebush.

There was no way the Dursleys would pay for him to go to a school for witchcraft and wizardry. And how was he even supposed to get there? For that matter, where was he supposed to buy a real magic wand, or any of that other stuff? These were serious problems that needed to be solved. But Harry wasn't going to let some paltry obstacles stop him. This was his chance!

He could finally seize his opportunity for greatness and run away with it, and he could prove to himself that he was deserving of his powers. In that sense, others could never matter. He would be above vengeance, because there would be nothing to revenge against. No slight could matter to him. _He was a wizard_. He would be magnanimous in his triumph, and bring his enemies to heel before they could act against him. And it would begin tonight. But first, he had to escape his cupboard.

It was a bit daunting—he had never even attempted to do so much complicated… _magic_ at once. Not to mention that it was not exactly easy to do magic on something he couldn't actually see. Still, he had to try. Harry took several deep breaths to center his thoughts, and called up the feeling of his magic—how he reveled in that fact!—and pushed slightly, thinking of the first and easiest opponent, and what he wanted done.

The small latch came undone with a _snap_. Just three more locks to go. The rim lock was next, and it would require a bit more effort; not for the first time Harry was thankful his theft from the hardware store was successful, because he knew the exact image he had to call up in his mind, and how he had to change it. He put his right hand against the lock and imagined his magic running through it and into the lock, focusing his mind until there was a _click_.

Two down, two to go.

The deadbolt, at least, presented little technical challenge to Harry. The key insert was on the inside of his cupboard, so he only had to manipulate the thumb turn that was on the other side of the door in order to release the lock. Though the whole device was a rather heavy metal, and he'd never tried to magic something like that, so while there was no technical challenge, there might be a magical one. Could he focus his magic enough that it wouldn't slide off?

Well, it was about time he was challenged magically. Indeed, Harry had always run roughshod over intellectual hurdles, and even physical ones thanks to his magic (he now realized), so this was only fitting. And, if he couldn't even magic a little lock to open, then how was he going to become the greatest wizard in the world, respected by all others for his achievements?

So caught up was he in his thoughts that he jumped from his crouch when thunder _clanged_ in the distance. Perhaps he was psyching himself up a bit too much.

Harry shook himself loose. His thoughts were getting away from him, and he absolutely had to concentrate—there were things to be done: places to go, people to see, things to buy. He was on a tight schedule.

Calling up in his mind's eye the other side of the deadbolt, Harry focused his will and felt around for his magic. He concentrated intently on the switch, imagining his own fingers touching it, feeling the cold metal beneath his skin. But it wasn't cold, it was warm. And it was vibrating. Screwing his eyes shut tight, Harry pushed his magic into the lock, forcing it into the switch. It was shaking even more now. He was doing it! Just one more push, one more breath, and then—

 _Click!_

"YES!" he yelled, only to clamp both hands over his mouth, trying in vain to force back in those traitorous words that escaped into the night.

Harry's heart skipped a few beats as he listened intently, trying to discern any sound coming from elsewhere inside Number 4 that might tell him whether or not he had been betrayed by his own words.

But there was only silence, save for the thunder that was _rumbling_ toward Little Whinging.

Harry took a deep breath and exhaled noisily. Escaping his cupboard had turned out to be much more stressful than he had anticipated. Harry hoped he'd only have to do it this one last time, but with his luck…

Now he had to open the padlock, which would be much more difficult than any of his pervious magical endeavors. Harry had no idea what sort of mechanism was hidden on the inside of the lock, how complex or simple the gears and tumblers were, or what the release looked like. He was blind, and it made him feel a little vulnerable—like all of his work just may have been in vain. But there was no way some £10 lock could stop him—he was a wizard, his magic was powerful. Still…. He figured his magic wasn't developed enough yet for him to project like that. Harry would have to find another way.

He could try to force the lock to break open. That might work, but it might also break the lock and keep him in his cupboard anyway.

 _Well, force doesn't always work_ , Harry remembered.

It was something that Vernon often forgot—that you can't always beat something into submission, or even if you can, there are usually better ways to go about things and still achieve one's aims—a weakness to exploit or some such. And that was exactly what Harry was going to do.

He would ignore the lock itself, because he didn't have to undo the lock at all. The lock was really four pieces: The padlock itself that encased the locking mechanism, of course, the eyelet, around which the shank of the padlock was locked, and what the shank kept in place, the clasp. The eyelet and the clasp were each screwed into his cupboard—and that was the weakness he would exploit. The padlock was little more than a distraction; he only had to reverse two screws that held the clasp in place on the wall, that way the cupboard door would open without Harry even having to bother with the padlock.

It would be easy.

Harry focused his attention on the long screws that jetted into his cupboard, glaring at them.

 _Really_ , he thought, _I'm liable to hit my head on them_!

He forced himself to calm down. It wouldn't do to lose his temper—and he ought to be used to such danger by now, after all.

In his mind's eye, Harry imagined the screws coming lose, unscrewing themselves from his cupboard wall and falling to the floor. He imagined the process over and over again, and finally opened his eyes. With a concentrated push of his magic, the screws started wriggling. Harry focused more. He didn't just want them to unscrew themselves, he _needed_ them to unscrew themselves. He needed to escape. He was going to be a _wizard_! He wasn't going to fail. He _needed_ this to happen!

He got two small _clicks_ in reply. The screws had fallen out of the wall and onto the floor.

He did it!

Harry pushed on his cupboard door and it swung open. He crawled out, immeasurably relieved. But Harry couldn't stop yet. His journey was just beginning. He had to get ready.

Taking a deep breath, Harry crawled back into his cupboard and rushed to gather what he would need for his journey. He reached deep beneath the bottom-most stairs and lifted the floorboard. He grasped the plastic bag bursting with money and yanked it out. It would have to do for now, so he turned his attention elsewhere. Harry didn't really have clothes so much as he had things to wear, but he would have to bring some of them along anyway. He shoved the less ruined things in his backpack along with the bag of money and three containers of non-perishable food he always kept with him, and left his cupboard for the last time.

Creeping into the kitchen, he grabbed some fruit, two bottles of water, lunch meat, cheese, and bread, and added them to his bag. It was quite full now, so he would have to stop. Harry paused and looked around. It was the last time he would _ever_ be in Number 4. It had to be. Once he found these wizards wherever they were hidden and explained his situation, then surely, _surely_ they would offer him sanctuary.

They had to.

Harry took a deep breath. His stomach was tight, and he wasn't sure if it was from anxiety about his trip or the fact that he hadn't eaten in a while. Regardless, he had to push on. To persevere, despite the fact that he was only ten years old and he was running away from home on some jaunt to find the secretive wizards and make himself a new home among them. Despite everything, he had to succeed. And he would.

He was Harry Potter, after all.

Moving to the front door Harry stopped suddenly, his eye caught. It could be dangerous for him. He was young and far too small for his age. Someone might try to hurt him. He had to be ready for that. There had to be villains among wizards, too. Coming to a decision, he nicked Vernon's pocket knife. He had no idea why the oaf carried it around—he was a salesman!—but whatever. It might serve Harry well. Knives had been useful tools for millennia, not just weapons. He would find a use for it. It certainly wasn't getting any use staying in Vernon's pocket as he sat in his office. Harry slid it into a side pocket of his backpack where he had put some extra socks. It would stay there until he needed it.

He pulled at the straps, tightening the backpack around his shoulders. He was ready.

The storm door was locked, of course, but that couldn't stop a wizard like Harry. With little more than a thought and a quirk of Harry's lips, the locks came undone, the knob twisted, and the door opened. A wild gust of wind blew into Number 4, making Harry's hair even more messed than usual.

Harry stepped into the night and breathed in the fresh and warm salty air.

He had done it! He was free!

An unusual chill went down his back; unusual because it was quite a warm night and also because there was something…different about the air. It was weighty. Like there was a current running through it and across the night that was invisible yet there all the same. There was another _rumble_ of thunder, this time much closer to Little Whinging than previously.

It wasn't likea storm at all, at least, not a normal storm. Harry took another deep breath, filling his senses with the night. Another chill. He had figured it out! He knew that feeling. He got it whenever he was doing magic. Whenever he knew something was going to happen, and then it did. It was anticipation. The night was full of it. _Magic_. It was waiting for him.

 _Well_ , Harry thought wryly as a tight smirk tugged at his lips, _I'll be sure not to disappoint_.

Taking a slow breath, Harry stepped off the front stoop of Number 4 Privet Drive and into history.


	2. The Awakening

Harry should have known his mission would be more difficult than he had imagined.

 _Honestly_. He was running away from home in the middle of the night on some crazy journey to find the wizards who sent him a letter. _Of course_ it would be extremely difficult. But still, that'd never stopped him yet. And it wouldn't. He was a wizard with a destiny, after all. The night had told him so.

And it wasn't like he was going about his mission blind or anything. He had some idea of what to do, of where to go. He remembered meeting strange people before. People in odd dresses and odd hats. People who seemed to know him, and who then disappeared too quickly for him to speak to them. Disappeared as if by magic.

If he had ever met a wizard before, it had to be these people. And he had met these people in London, and not that London wasn't full of strange people (because it absolutely was), but there was something different about them, something _special_ , which was why he was waiting patiently for the train to come to a stop.

The sun had crested over the horizon an hour previously. He hadn't really slept at all the previous night, but that was fine. He didn't always need sleep, and presently found little reason for it. It was also doubtful that Harry could sleep even if he wanted. He was going to find the wizards! At last he would be around people like himself, people who understood him. Who knew that being _normal_ wasn't all it was chalked up to be.

They would be real people, too, who were creative and funny and smart like he was, and liked to pretend just like he did, and they would think he was special too. Special like them, but in a different way, because he was Harry Potter, not them, and surely each wizard had their own special gifts that made them stand out from the crowd—like when he spoke to that python! At least, he hoped that was the case. Wouldn't it be awful if there were normal wizards?

Surely such a thing couldn't exist.

Stepping out from the train, Harry hurried down from the platform and walked into central London. He could go anywhere from there by a number of means. He could take a cab, or a bus, or walk, or even get on the tube. He would find these wizards one way or another.

Harry looked around. London was clearly awake. People were already bustling about, vehicles going this way and that. In the distance he saw an airplane climb high into the sky. All around him were tall buildings and big signs. Glass windows that sparkled from the morning dew. Paved streets that _rumbled_ as tires drove across them. And then the grey morning suddenly wasn't so grey. Things were everywhere. Colorful things, risqué images that advertised expensive perfumes, storefronts that held the latest fashion from Milan and Paris. The vehicles here were colorful too. Black taxicabs. Big red double-decker busses. Silver sedans. Blue SUVs. Yellow delivery trucks.

And sound. Sound everywhere. Seemingly everything that _was_ made a sound. _Thumping_ , _rumbling_ tires. _Clicking_ stoplights. Bicycles _ringing_. Obnoxious horns _blaring_. Rude yelling. Polite greetings. Soft _splashes_ as puddles jumped onto the sidewalk.

It was order from chaos—greater than the sum of its parts.

It was like a grand symphony not just of sound, but of light, too. It was the most beautiful thing Harry had ever seen. It was so _different_ from Little Whinging that there was no way anyone who was not totally insane or _normal_ could not be enthralled by its trance. It was a good sign that Harry was on the right path.

Putting some money on a freshly acquired Oyster Card, Harry grabbed a map of bus routes and hopped onto a bus. Checking his schedule, he went about making a plan. He saw that in two hours he would be at King's Cross Station, where he would have three choices to make. He could get on a bus that would take him out towards the residential districts, one out to East London, or one that would bring him near Buckingham Palace.

He wondered why the bus routes weren't more ordered—they seemed quite wild and ill-thought-out. It was obvious that whoever was in charge was not very smart, or at least had never had the decency to consider that there might one day be a ten year old wizard who was looking for other wizards, and would need the bus routes to make sense, so that he could scour London methodically, and not like some buffoon or, Heaven forbid, a _tourist_.

Harry sighed.

Things just got that much more difficult.

But anyway, his next move was quite clear. In fact it was hardly a decision from that point. Obviously he ought to start from downtown London where everything that was worthwhile was kept, where surely the most interesting people were, and work his way from there. And maybe he could see some sights along the way.

 _To King's Cross!_ he thought excitedly.

gh

King's Cross was interesting. It was _very_ busy. Far too busy for Harry to tell really if there were any wizards around him, even if he did eye the crowds like a predator searching desperately for its prey. So, Harry was forced to take another bus deeper into London, as per his plan, this time towards Buckingham Palace. He wouldn't be stopping there, of course. He would get off in SoHo, where he would wander, checking off roads from his map along the way.

There was no way Harry would fail at finding these wizards. He would _not_ be going back to Little Whinging. He would die before he did that. Which was a curious thought, because he felt that he might actually die if he did go back to Little Whigning. Not from being thrashed by the Dusleys, though this was quite likely, but rather from his heart at long last giving up its ceaseless struggle for life.

His soul wouldn't be able to take it anymore, and it would simply wither away.

An hour later, the bus was careening down Theobalds Road as it was wont to do, full of passengers as it was, and Harry had still not seen any sign of the wizards. He was beginning to get frustrated.

Oh sure, he had seen his fair share of strange people that morning. A few people dressed in odd and sometimes revealing black leather clothes and black make up with their hair spiked; people dressed in nicely tailored suits and who had well-groomed hair and the same leather briefcases and the same newspapers that were always open to the financial section. There were _lots_ of those people. People like Vernon, but who were only more successful and better looking.

He had yet to see any men in those weird dresses. _Well_ , he thought with a small laugh, _there was that one guy…_ But it wasn't the right kind of dress. And he also looked sort of like a lady. He could have been a wizard, but he could also have just liked looking like a lady. So Harry kept up his search.

The bus screeched to a halt at a rather busy intersection, nearly causing Harry to fall from his seat. He looked out of the window and noticed he was in some sort of theater district. That was close enough to his destination.

Jumping from the bus, he looked for some sign of his location, and found he was on Tottenham Court Road. That corresponded with his map, so he planned out his excursion. Harry would make the trek down Charing Cross Road and then up Shaftesbury Avenue, where he would come around on Saint Giles High Street and end up where he began.

Harry heaved another sigh. There was just _so much_ for him to explore, but he had to start somewhere.

At least all the people had been ignoring him. It wouldn't do to have some bobby to ask him where his mummy and daddy were.

No. Definitely not.

Charing Cross was a rather nice place, and Harry suspected that it would look even better at night when the city truly came alive. He could imagine it. Elegant people walking around in expensive and beautiful clothes on their way to the theater. Young couples going to small cafes for dinner, laughing about their days and enjoying their lives. Lights and sounds dancing all around them in celebration. It would surely be glorious. And Harry wanted to be a part of that. He _would_ be a part of that.

And while his fantasy was all well and good, it didn't lead to him finding any wizards, or even anything that was wizard _ish_. It was all very disappointing.

Harry turned left onto Shaftesbury Avenue and continued in his search. The first thing he noticed was just how many restaurants there were. Well, it was more like his stomach had noticed them.

In all his excitement that morning, he had neglected to eat any of the food that he had in his pack, and had only just noticed that it almost eleven in the morning and that he was quite hungry. Ignoring his growling stomach for the moment, Harry pushed further along, keeping an eye out for his quarry.

For fifteen minutes he walked, dutifully snubbing his hunger like the good little wizard he was. Harry had managed it quite well, too, until he came upon a most wondrous establishment that actually made the rude noises emanating from his stomach grow impossibly loud.

Chinese food.

Oh what a temptress! He had never had the pleasure of eating anything like it before. Ha! As if anyone Dursley would be caught eating _foreign_ food. He had always wondered about other cultures when he discovered the world's variety in the library, and his inner chef had often considered what it would be like to eat those new foods, but had never been indulged.

 _Until now_ , he thought with an uncharacteristic smile

With a big grin and a stomach that was howling in anticipation, Harry crossed the street and entered a little corner of heaven on earth.

An hour and a half later, Harry looked across his table. He had never eaten so much in his life! He feared his stomach might explode. But how truly glorious it was to be him right now! He doubted he would ever eat English food again! Now that Harry had tasted the wonderful deliciousness of foreign dishes—the forbidden fruit!—he could never go back to meat pies and boiled potatoes. Even if he did make them rather tastier than they would otherwise be.

He would have to look into procuring some cookbooks.

Reaching into his bag, Harry counted out several bills to pay his tab. Laying the money out on the table and signaling for his waitress, Harry applauded his foresight in stealing so much money from the Dursleys. Their stupidity really was the best thing that had happened to him until the day an owl landed on his lawnmower.

Thanking the hostess profusely and returning her bow, Harry vowed to return even as he walked out of the shop. Looking around him, he noticed that the clouds had gone away some and the sun was shining brighter, and in a moment of intensity, the light reflected off the pane from across the street and seemed to make everything glow.

Harry smiled.

Things were looking up.

And in that moment, Harry's life changed.

Coming out of the alley adjacent to the cleaners across the street, two men in dresses and funny hats emerged onto the sidewalk.

Harry felt his heart stop, before it started beating again faster than ever before.

He had found the wizards!

Discreetly following them, Harry hoisted his backpack up a little more and tightened the straps. He had to be ready to move quickly, and he could not be seen.

Eyeing the two wizards, Harry waited for a lull in the traffic before he tore across the street. He would have a greater chance at remaining undetected if he was behind them. And they continued to walk for a minute, both wizards ignoring the sidelong glances they were getting and Harry grudgingly thankful once again that he was small and that people rarely notice what is right in front of them.

Suddenly the two wizards turned into an odd, run-down building and disappeared from sight.

 _What?_

Harry stopped and observed the building. It _was_ odd. It looked hundreds of years old and was incredibly run down, and it was surrounded by a district that was almost entirely modern. And what was even stranger was that no one even seemed to notice that it was there! All these people in their nice clothes and well-groomed hair and fancy cars just moved about the building as if it wasn't such a horrible, characterless eyesore—a blight on their gorgeous city.

 _Inconceivable!_

But maybe it wasn't, Harry figured. It could be…it could be magic. It could be that only magic people could see the building—this…Leaky Cauldron place—so other, non-magic people actually couldn't see it. _That_ was plausible, given what little he knew about wizards.

Harry would have to investigate.

He took a step…and was promptly crashed into by a tall man in a business suit, and they both fell to the ground hard and the man's briefcase and newspaper went flying through the air and into the path of a bicycle messenger, and his hot, expensive coffee spilled down his shirt and jacket and all over his pants. And the young man on the bicycle swerved out of the way and flipped his bike, landing on his shoulder on the sidewalk.

Harry skidded on his knees and the heels of his hands, scratching them horribly. The sudden increase of sound had caught him off guard. There was lots of yelling and cursing.

He looked up from his position on the harsh concrete sidewalk and saw that there were lots of people gathering around the accident, and many were looking at him.

Which was all quite problematic. He was supposed to remain unseen, lest the wizards escape. And he couldn't allow that to happen.

Suddenly he was hauled to his feet by some powerful force. He looked up. Presumably the man who had collided with him had picked him up from the ground, and he looked _quite_ angry.

He was almost that color purple that Vernon seemed so fond of. But this man was much taller than Vernon. Stronger, too, from the looks of it. Harry would have to handle this situation delicately.

"What the fuck is your problem?!" the man yelled.

Harry should have expected such immediate hostility. Judging by the cropped hair, close shave, and shine of the now-ruined suit, the man was obviously way too self-important to moderate himself after a perceived slight, even from a scrawny little kid. Perhaps Harry could try the scared little kid tactic. It seemed to work in the books he read.

"S-sorry sir," he stuttered out, shying away from him, "I-I d-didn't mean to!"

"I don't fucking care," the man raged on, "you ruined my goddam suit! It costs thousands of fucking Pounds!" he declared, causing spittle flying out of his mouth and land on Harry's pale face. His breath smelled horribly like alcohol, and Harry was hard-pressed not vomit.

"Well?!" he yelled at Harry's continued silence. Not waiting for an answer, he kept on with his tirade. "What're you stupid or something? Look at you, you're nothing but a no good little shit! Just another trouble maker, a burden to society, leeching off of honest taxpayers!"

 _Oh_ , Harry realized, _this guy probably has the same problem as Vernon_.

Well, Harry wasn't about to let this idiot get away with manhandling and insulting him, so, in his most innocent-sounding voice, Harry expressed his faux-concern. "Excuse me sir, but are you suffering from erectile dysfunction? It's known to cause increased aggressiveness in men with already low self-esteem and—"

And then something happened that Harry never expected another adult to do to him outside of Number 4. The man slapped him. _Hard_.

 _SMACK_!

The crowd gasped and Harry fell to the ground, taken completely by surprise. He heard yells and angry calls, but he couldn't make them out. He was so surprised, so angry about his humiliation that it was too difficult for him to focus on details like that.

Harry quickly got off the ground and turned to glare at the man, who was also ignoring the crowd's recriminations, and was glaring back at Harry.

This wasn't right. This man couldn't do this to him, not to Harry Potter. Harry Potter was a wizard! He could do amazing things. He didn't have to be tossed around like a rag-doll anymore, starved and beaten until he could barely move. _NO!_ He was special. And he would show them.

Harry looked into the man's rage-filled eyes and willed himself to be taken in. He saw flashes of the man's life, memories of a room with a big table and lots of chairs, meeting important people and making big important deals that earned him his boss' praise. But that wasn't what he was after. He wanted something to humiliate this man just as he himself had been humiliated. And then something new flashed before Harry's consciousness. The feeling of rage, shame, and betrayal flittered about as the images played out the scene. He was coming home early one day, and found his girlfriend on the couch with another man. They were naked.

Harry pulled out of the man's mind. He had what he needed. He unleashed his anger.

"So maybe it still works right, but it just wasn't enough to keep your girlfriend from cheating on you, wasn't it?" he asked snidely.

The enraged man let loose a _roar_ and quicker than Harry expected, closed the distance and had his hands around his throat. He squeezed.

The people who had only been watching them rushed in, trying to pull Harry and the man apart. They wouldn't be quick enough. _Couldn't_ be. Harry was a wizard, and he was faster than all of them. Stronger, too. _Better_.

Even as his air supply was waning and his body's natural panic set in, Harry focused, forcing everything else from his mind. He focused his will on the man's hands, not caring that his legs were dangling in the air or that his face was turning blue or the pain shooting across his neck. His will was the gateway to his magic. And magic was what he needed right now. He needed to make this man hurt.

And then it was there—

Harry's neck became like boiling grease, and the man's hands were ruined. Disfigured and broken.

The man screamed out from the pain.

Harry dropped to the ground and rolled away from the businessman as he writhed on the ground. He looked around him. People were staring at him, then at the man, and then back at him. And they looked scared. Frightened. Worried. They knew he wasn't like that before he started strangling Harry, and then suddenly he was. They knew Harry had done that to him. And that he could do it do them, too. And they looked at him like all those people in Little Whinging would look at him after a new rumor had gone around besmirching his character, or like the Dursleys would after something odd happened and they were going to blame him. Condemn him. They looked at him—Harry Potter, boy wizard—like he was a _freak_.

And he knew that was all he'd ever be to them.

And Harry hated it.

And Harry ran.

He pushed past the shockrd crowd and tore down the street to where the two wizards had disappeared. Once he got there, he would be safe. There would be people like him there, and they'd understand that he wasn't a freak, but that he was special. There had to be. And then everything would be okay.

He reached the entrance to the Leaky Cauldron and turned around—breathless—to see if he was being chased. He wasn't. There was no angry mob wielding torches and pitchforks, burning him in effigy. There weren't even any accusing stares. No one was even looking at him. Rather, they were all looking past him and down the street, or across the street, or in the street, as if they couldn't see him, like he had disappeared. How strange!

How useful!

Harry gave the crowd a raspy chuckle.

Turning back around, Harry got his first up-close look of a wizard building—how that knowledge excited him!—and he found it wanting. Sure it was interesting, but it was so _drab_. It wasn't cool at all! Just really old and in desperate need of a cleaning.

Perhaps it was nicer on the inside?

Harry opened the door and walked inside some…and was immediately assaulted by a horrible musky smell of acrid smoke and something really _weird_ …that was most likely the body odor of the fat man passed out near the door who gave off a feeling like he had never washed his hands.

 _Ooookay,_ Harry concluded, _not exactly how I would have introduced someone to the wizarding world, but_ —

The door snapped shut behind Harry, causing him to jump out of the way and take to the corner as a large man with matted hair and a dark, wrinkled dress walked in with a happy smile lit upon his face.

He stopped mid-stride and looked to his right. Seeing the fat man, he moved over to his table and sat down, jostling him until he awoke.

"'Ey Arnie! Wake up, ya old slob. I got a story ta tell yer," the new man explained excitedly, his accent making Harry cringe.

The fat man—Arnie—shuffled in his sleep and rolled about in his chair until he had regained consciousness. He looked at the other man blearily and wiped some slobber from his chins.

"Whadda wan', Jess? Ish shleepin," he slurred.

 _Ugh_ , Harry thought _, how odious!_

"I saw them Muggle Aurors again, Arnie! Wearing funny hats an' all! They was right outside!" he exclaimed.

 _Muggle Aurors? Hats? What? Oh! And really, the man's wearing a dress, and he has the gall to call the bobbies' hats funny?!_

Harry was unimpressed.

Deciding that his efforts were better spent elsewhere, Harry moved deeper into the seedy, smoky wizard tavern—because that's what it most assuredly was, as unimaginative as even a wizard tavern is—and tried to spy someone who looked like they might be able to help him about Hogwarts and his school supplies. Seeing the barman, Harry made his way over but was stopped short as a rather wispy-looking woman stood up from her seat and made her way over to the man behind the counter. Harry followed behind her.

"Tom! Tom!" she called for his attention, "Thanks for lunch, Tom, it was great as always. Here's your Sickles."

The balding barman—Tom—smiled a hideously toothless smile at the woman. "Thanks fer that, May. Come back an'time," he said cheerfully.

"Right kind of ya Tom, right kind. I'll see you later I'm sure. Just gotta get over to Gringotts to get some more money before I head home to Jack; he's going on a trip tomorrow. Have a good day."

Harry hurried out of her way and back into the shadows and vapor, careful to breathe slowly through his nose lest he choke.

Carefully, he weaved through the small spaces between chairs and tables as the woman made her way to Gringotts—likely some sort of bank—where along the way Harry might find some sort of welcome center. Because surely there was something _more_ than a dirty tavern full of drunks in the middle of the afternoon!

Things already were so strange.

Having observed two wizard conversations thus far, Harry figured it would perhaps behoove him for the time being not to announce his presence in such a new, almost alien place. Everything was so different that if he did something wrong he might ruin his chances at starting a new life where he could create a name for himself untouched by the aspersions of the residents of Little Whinging. He would have to curb his excitement for now, and then act when the opportunity arose.

Silently, he followed the witch to the back of the pub where she exited through a door and came out into a small bricked area cluttered with some boxes and a tin garbage can.

And then Harry saw it. A magic wand. _A magic wand_! His heartbeat increased a little and his eyes widened in anticipation. He was going to see magic done with a real wand! He was so excited…

…which made his disappointment that much greater when all she did was tap the bricks in a funny little sequence and promptly stowed her wand.

 _What the fuck!?_

But then something happened. The witch may have done something, but the brick wall was doing so much more. It was moving—folding up! Like there had been a gateway there the whole time, and it was just covered up with some bricks.

The witch walked through the gateway. And then Harry saw it. Wizards. Magic. Things. Colors. Sounds. It was all there.

He had done it.

Harry stomach's lurched when the portal started closing, but he was too quick for it and he scampered through.

Harry breathed in the smell of wizards and let it fill him. This was no grimy tavern full of drunks, this was a magical place full of wizards and witches and amazing things—incredible things—magical things. A shiver of anticipation ran down his spine.

Harry smiled hugely and walked on.

His senses were overloaded—there was just so _much_! There were so many feelings and sounds and colors that, if Harry were a lesser person, he'd likely have an incredibly vicious migraine. He could stay there all day and still not get his full, would never be satisfied, and he hoped he never would be satisfied. If Harry had his way, he would never run out of magic to study, he would always be inventing new things, practicing new spells and brewing clever and powerful potions. Because what's the point of being the greatest wizard in the world if one becomes complacent?

In front of their stalls, peddlers were hocking their wares: weird animals and clothes, little trinkets, snacks that would make the eater make animal noises. And the storefronts! So many things. _Actual_ magic brooms. A pet store. A bookstore. An Apothecary. A clothiers. And more. _So much more_.

Harry's neck was beginning to hurt from the strain of twisting and tilting his head every which way. But that was okay. Nothing would stop him. He was a wizard!

Ahead of him, at the end of that wonderful street, was a huge, domed marble building that spoke of richness and importance and towered over the other shops and stalls and buildings. And there were great glittering golden doors, and there was writing above them in bold golden letters: Gringotts.

He had found the bank. And it was magnificent. He just knew that it was what a bank was supposed to look like. Not a dull, red brick, one story, square shell, but an enormous palace of casual opulence and _power_ and _splendor_ and _vastness_. Harry _had_ to see the inside.

Walking up the marble steps, Harry nearly fell down. There were… _creatures_ standing in front of the doors. They were small, had black beady eyes, long noses, and sharp teeth. They were wearing silver armor and carried decidedly deadly-looking weapons that they clutched in knarled, long-fingered hands. Steadying his breath, Harry walked on, desperately avoiding the creatures' eyes.

Harry entered what was presumably the foyer and suddenly felt very small—dwarfed, even—by the grandness of the bank. It was all very intimidating. Ahead of him were two silver doors that were smaller than the golden ones he just walked through, but these were no less special, for engraved upon these doors was a poem—or a warning—to all who entered, and Harry couldn't decide whether or not he was being threatened or challenged.

It read:

 _Enter, stranger, but take heed_  
 _Of what awaits the sin of greed_  
 _For those who take, but do not earn,_  
 _Must pay most dearly in their turn._  
 _So if you seek beneath our floors_  
 _A treasure that was never yours,_  
 _Thief, you have been warned, beware_  
 _Of finding more than treasure there._

Harry gave the poem top marks. And he also wondered desperately what more there was than treasure beneath the polished marble floors of Gringotts…

Harry came into the main hall and was struck dumb—it was even more than he expected. Hundreds of those creatures were sat behind tall mahogany desks counting out gold, measuring and weighing huge gems, consulting with their meticulous-looking fellows…it was all so synchronous, so elegantly done that Harry couldn't help but be impressed. The gentle _hum_ of conversation bounced around the hall and settled a professional, _clean_ air to the building that Harry definitely appreciated. Not like the Leaky Cauldron, at all! He had to find out more about this spectacular place.

Seeing an unoccupied creature, Harry walked up to…him, he guessed…and tried to get his attention.

Harry cleared his throat. "Um, excuse me?"

The creature just continued observing the crowd with a horribly bored expression on his face.

Perhaps Harry needed to speak louder. "Excuse me?" he tried again.

Still nothing.

 _He's ignoring me_ , Harry realized. That was upsetting. But even more than that, it made Harry angry. _How could he be so rude to me? I never did anything to him!_

Running out of patience, Harry tried again, letting some of his anger slip into his voice.

" _Excuse me_."

The creature startled, and knocked over a stack of gold coins with a loose elbow, causing them to scatter all over his desk. He looked down at Harry, eyes widening slightly.

"What?" he grumbled.

That was a _really_ good question. What was it Harry was there for anyway? These creatures certainly weren't going to be very helpful to him if their current behavior was any indication. He didn't even know if he was in the right place—where new wizards were supposed to go. He was flying blind.

"Um," he began, "uh—I have some money. I have a lot of Pounds."

 _Money. Right. This is a bank. I'm certainly speaking their language. Perhaps—_

The creature heaved a great, agonized sigh and rolled his head to one side and spoke in a bored voice, as though reading for the ten-thousandth time from an amateur script.

"The Ministry-guaranteed conversion rate from Muggle Pounds to Galleons is 5:1. Please hand over any Muggle currency you wish to convert now." And he stuck out his hand.

Harry wasn't quite sure what to do, and he was awfully confused, but figured he ought to listen to the creature for the time being.

He reached into his backpack and withdrew his plastic bag full of Pounds—Muggle Pounds, as the creature said. Harry reached in and took out two fifty Pound notes and stuffed them in his pocket, and gave the rest over to the creature.

The creature looked quite disgusted by Harry's choice of wallet—and Harry was too, for that matter—but took the bag of money anyway, and began counting.

"Eight hundred and seventy-nine Pounds will be converted into one hundred and seventy-five Galleons, and fourteen Sickles. Is that what you want?" he asked harshly.

Harry nodded decisively.

Sometimes one has to feign confidence, after all. It's for the best.

The creature grunted again and started dumping gold and silver coins into a brown leather pouch.

 _Wizard money!_ Harry realized. _Wow!_

He was so excited. First he found out he was a wizard, then he had escaped from Little Whinging, then he actually managed to _find_ where the Wizards were hidden, and now he was getting their money! What a day. He knew that next he was going to buy a wand. Every proper wizard needed a wand, of course, and his was going to be the best. He was sure of it.

And apparently the creature was done getting his money.

Harry reached for the bag with a huge grin on his face.

"Thank you so much!" he exclaimed. "Have a great day!"

The creature ignored him, but Harry didn't care.

He was a wizard!

Harry hurried out of the building and back to where the shops were. He had to find out where they sold wands. It was a shame there was no map of this place like there was of London.

Harry gave a tired sigh. He had already done so much that day, and he had hardly slept. But he couldn't stop now. He was going to get a wand. A _magic_ wand. What was sleeping compared to that?!

Harry walked down the magnificent cobbled street—eyes devouring everything they saw—and scoured for a place that sold wands.

Well, that wasn't quite right. He had already found two places that sold wands: Wand Showroom and Jimmy Kiddell's Wonderful Wands, but he didn't stop there for long. There was just something…off about those places. It was like they weren't serious enough—like they were places where one might find cheap plastic magic tricks. It wasn't quite what Harry was looking for, and he hoped there was another place where he could get a _proper_ wand.

Scooting past a ragged vendor and his pet _ooh-ohh_ ing monkey, Harry hurried along the street. There had to be _someplace_ … _somewhere!_

All of a sudden, Harry nearly fell on his face when he tripped on a loose cobble, but he was so practiced at falling down that he rolled over his shoulder and saved his nose from being broken…only to crash headfirst into a dark door, making the old glass panes _rattle_ dangerously.

"Ow," Harry moaned. He was not expecting that. Not at all!

Harry shifted so that he was sitting properly upon the street. Nobody had even noticed him fall, it seemed.

He gave a humorless laugh, hoping that eventually there might come a time when people would take notice of him—when he had finally made his name praiseworthy because of his great deeds, they would have no choice _but_ to notice him, because his greatness compelled them so.

Harry nodded his head severely.

 _Yes, that will do_.

Standing up, Harry gave a slight glare to the offending cobblestone and turned around to look at what building he had crashed into. It was certainly old. And it was in need of a good cleaning. But there was something about it. A special kind of _hum_ that made him shiver slightly. He looked up at the building's façade.

 _Ollivander's: Makers of fine wands since 383 B.C._

He had found another wand shop! But not just any old wand shop. No. This was the _right_ wand shop.

He had to get inside.

Harry opened the door, hearing it give a long _creak_ , and was quickly overwhelmed by the magic inside the shop. He could taste it in the air!

He moved deeper into the store—noticing how dark and cluttered and cramped and absolutely dusty it was. _So many wands!_ But how would he choose!? How—

Harry heard a slight _scuff_ against the floor behind him and spun around quickly. He cursed himself for being so excited—he had gotten caught off guard!

Suddenly there was a slight shimmer in the air, and an old man fazed into sight.

Harry's first thought was that the old man looked terribly creepy—his eyes were a glassy blue-grey, his hair was white and wispy, and his clothes were dark and moth-eaten. He looked like he had been dead for a few months and was just brought back to life to frighten him. Harry was certainly unnerved—and he tried…but couldn't even get a reading off of him like he could everyone else. Perhaps that explained why he hadn't sensed the man when he first walked in?

It was all _most_ unexpected!

The old man smiled.

He spoke in a soft whisper. "I thought I might be seeing you soon, Mr. Potter. You're right on time, I imagine."

Harry could only stare.

 _How does he know my name?! And what does he mean 'on time'?! What is going on?_

Harry cleared his throat. "Um, hi," he held out his hand, "I'm Harry Potter."

He cursed himself for his stupidity. Obviously the creepy old man already knew that!

The man took his hand gently and stared back at him, bemused. "Garrick Ollivander."

Mr. Ollivander looked at Harry as though taking his measure, then peered at his eyes and shifted quickly to his forehead where Harry's faded scar blemished his pale skin, and then he dropped Harry's hand and disappeared swiftly into the dusty stacks.

"I sold your parents their first wands, you know," he called back. "Your mother, such a sweet girl, had one of Willow. Ten inches. Whippy. Excellent for charms. While your father favored a Mohogany wand—a little more power—and excellent for Transfiguration." Ollivander gave a short, self-deprecating laugh. "Well, I say he favored it," Ollivander came back into view carrying several boxes, "it's actually the wand that chooses the wizard, you know."

Ollivander smiled at Harry, but Harry couldn't see it.

He felt like his heart was going to explode.

 _His parents?! What?!_

Willow. Mahogany. Magic. Witch. Wizard. Magic. His parents. Harry's Parents. He hadn't spared them a thought in so long. It was so much easier that way. Ignoring them rather than dealing with his incessant, biting hatred of them for getting themselves killed and leaving him with the Dursleys. To pretend that that never happened. That he never had parents, at all. To—

"Aspen and Phoenix feather. Nine inches, flexible." He handed Harry a wand.

Shell-shocked and quite possibly not breathing, Harry reflexively grabbed the proffered wand, not even caring enough to be excited or to notice the vase of dead flowers that exploded near the side window.

His parents? What?

"Cedar, springy. With Unicorn."

Fire shot out of it and blasted the floor, shocking Harry out of his stupor.

"AH!" Harry jumped back and watched, amazed, as a jet of water shot out of Ollivander's own wand and doused the flames.

Harry was mortified, and was just about to beg forgiveness from Ollivander when he heard the man laughing merrily.

"Oh ho! I don't think I've seen such a bad reaction in quite a while, Mr. Potter! I always love a tricky customer," he said, but he didn't really even seem to be speaking to Harry at all. "Perhaps something with a little more power, eh?"

Ollivander was back two minutes later with more boxes, but they could wait. Harry had a question.

"Wait. Sir. Excuse me, but—what did you say about my parents? They had magic, too?"

Ollivander stopped short. He looked supremely confused.

Harry could empathize.

For his part, the old man just stared at Harry like he had three heads. What—

Ollivander cleared his throat. "I don't understand your question," he explained plainly.

 _Oh_. _How could that not have been clear?_

Harry shook his head quickly. He needed to concentrate.

"My parents. Are you saying that they were a witch and wizard too? That they could do magic, like me?"

Ollivander looked at Harry queerly. "Yes, of course there were magical. Very good students, too. Some of the brightest in a long time." And then a sad look crossed his face and he seemed to look past Harry. "It was such a shame too. So much potential—and then they were murdered on that terrible night." He heaved a heavy sigh. "I'm sorry to say I sold the wand that did it, too

"Yew. Thirteen and a half inches, with a Phoenix feather core. Powerful. Very powerful—and in the wrong hands… Well," he looked away from Harry, whose face had gotten incredibly stony, "it's not like I knew what that wand was going out in the world to do, of course."

Slowly, very slowly, Harry spoke. He had to keep his anger in check. He had to get information. He could not fail.

"What do you mean my parents were murdered?"

Ollivander's head snapped back to him so quickly that Harry actually heard something _crick_.

Surprise. That's what it was. The expression on Ollivander's face was one of surprise. And something else… Intrigue?

"Mr. Potter, do you not know your own story?"

Harry was beginning to lose his patience. "What story?" he ground out.

"Who came here with you today?"

"No one came with me! What—"

"Then how did you find this place?"

 _What does it matter?!_ "I—I escaped from the Dursleys last night and made my way to London! What's goi—"

"So you _do_ have your Hogwarts letter?"

 _Enough of this!_ Harry snapped. "What's going on?! What are you talking about?! You said my parents were murdered, that they were magical like me! And now you say I have a story! As if I don't know everything about my own life! As if I should know what the bloody hell you're talking about! What is going on?! Tell me! Tell the truth!" he screamed.

And Harry was quickly shunted forward into Ollivander's mind, and saw images flash past his consciousness. Out of the mist he saw a newspaper heading, but it flew by too quickly for Harry to read it. Another image came. A strangely familiar one. There was a beautiful woman with dark auburn hair and a tall man with glasses and messy black hair, and a feeling of sorrow. Then another man, a horrible man with glowing red eyes and a disfigured face, and a terrible sense of impending doom. And then there was a boy, a short, pale, skinny boy with black hair and serious eyes standing in front of Ollivander, but it wasn't Harry—it was the man with red eyes.

And a name. _Tom Riddle_.

Fear.

What—

And suddenly Harry was ejected from Ollivander's mind in a rush of color, and he was back in his own head, but he was on his hands and knees and breathing heavily. And he had a headache that seemed to travel all the way down his neck.

"Oh my," he heard Ollivander say breathlessly. "This is beyond anything I ever imagined."

Harry had trouble sitting upright, but he managed it. He had to look at Ollivander. See his face. The next moments would indicate whether or not Harry was in danger from him.

He looked at Ollivander and was surprised to find instead of anger, there was just more…surprise—much more, judging by the way the man's eyebrows had scurried up his forehead—and a great deal of anticipation.

 _How curious_.

"How curious, Mr. Potter, that you should stumble into my shop, completely unknowing of your identity in the Wizarding World. How _very_ curious."

"Sorry sir, but, what's curious?" Harry asked. It was best to play the old man's game for now. Then he would act.

"You are famous, Mr. Potter."

Harry was floored—almost literally, as he was quite lightheaded—and looked at Ollivander with disbelief etched all across his face.

"Famous? Me? I don't think so sir," he said dubiously.

Ollivander gave a small, mysterious smile. "Oh yes, quite famous, indeed. Why, I doubt there is anyone who does not know your name."

"Uh huh."

 _Right. So the man's not just creepy, but he's crazy too. I have to get out of here._

Harry slowly gained his bearings and eyed Ollivander warily. "And what am I famous for, exactly?"

"For the defeat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, of course."

That gave Harry pause. "Uh…what?"

"He was a terrible wizard," Ollivander explained gravely, "his reign of death and destruction nearly brought this country to its knees years ago, until one night, when you stopped him."

That _really_ gave Harry pause. "Excuse me?!" He couldn't have heard that right, even though the image of a monster with red eyes and a horrible face and green light and a woman screaming popped up into Harry's memory.

He did his best to block it out for the moment, but was finding that incredibly difficult…

"We all thought he was unstoppable. That he would soon destroy everything. Until you came along. That is why our people see you as their savior. On the night he murdered your parents, you destroyed him, the most powerful dark wizard in memory. It's quite remarkable really. You were only a baby, and yet, when all others died—your own parents, even—you lived.

"That is why you are known as the Boy-Who-Lived, because when he tried to kill you, the curse rebounded, leaving you with that scar, and destroyed him."

Silence. It was hard, and loud, and suffocating. It was the worst silence Harry had ever known, but he couldn't think of anything to break it—if it even could be broken, such was its power.

His parents were murdered by some crazed, supremely dangerous evil wizard, and apparently Harry defeated him, even though he himself had been only a baby. And the whole bloody world thought he was some kind of a hero because of it. A hero. Him. Harry Potter, from the cupboard under the stairs.

This bore some thinking about.

Harry started when Ollivander suddenly moved back into the stacks like a man possessed, and he felt no small amount of dismay at the armful of boxes the man carried with him when he emerged.

The deranged smile wasn't helping Harry's nerves any, either.

"Silver Lime and Augurey tail feather. Ten and a half inches. For those gifted in the Mind Arts…."

He handed Harry a rather impressive looking wand, and Harry loosed a great sneeze.

Apparently that wasn't the wand for Harry, because Ollivander promptly snatched it from his grip.

"Maple and Unicorn."

No.

"Acacia and Phoenix."

No.

"Dogwood and Dragon."

No.

"Pine and Phoenix."

No.

"Mohogany and Phoenix."

No.

"Elder and Dragon."

No.

"Walnut and Unicorn."

No.

Cherry and Unicorn.

No.

And that was how it went for another three hours. None of the wands Harry was given worked, but it was not through a _lack_ of reaction that this was so, rather, the abundance of negative reactions. Surely, some hapless peasant somewhere would have confused Harry for a bringer of the end-times, given some of them. _Lots_ of fire. Even some ice. And sparks. And broken things everywhere. Strange _growls_ and _groans_ and _tweeks_. Even a smell.

He was slightly amused.

Harry could see it now! Sometime in the future, there would be a museum all about how strange his first day in the wizarding world had been, and featured prominently in between the smelly fat man and the loose cobblestone would be a replica of the half-destroyed wand shop, with Harry standing among the rubble looking like a total idiot.

Yeah, that was the last thing he needed right now.

Harry was starting to become concerned. All round him was evidence of his failure to bond to a wand: a mountain of empty boxes, an enormous pile of wands, and a smoky haze that lingered in the dusty shop from the many fires and explosions the apparently semi-sentient wands had caused. And there was the crazy old man, who looked like he was about to die from excessive excitement.

Ollivander stopped suddenly, holding a wand just out of Harry's reach. He peered at him creepily, and a small smile lit his face. The mad man dashed back into the stacks and came back with just one box, holding it almost reverently.

He stood before Harry and held out the new wand.

"Holly and Phoenix feather, eleven inches, reasonably pliant," he explained in a soft voice. "Try it."

Slowly, Harry grabbed the wand—only to jump back in shock as it _screeched_ and rocketed from his hand like a missile and crashed into the wall where the whole wand exploded in a magnificent display of sound and light and flame, a distant, beautiful noise filling the shop for a brief moment, before all that was left to hear was Harry's heavy breathing and the deranged thumping of his small, startled heart.

He turned to face the wandmaker, and felt some slight satisfaction at the look of abject shock on the old man's face.

He cleared his throat. "Um, s-sorry about that, sir. And…" he looked around, "about all of the rest of the damage. I can pay for it."

Ollivander shook himself back to awareness.

"Pay?" he questioned, as if having never heard of the concept.

His eyes focused sharply on Harry, making him squirm. "You shall not be paying today, Mr. Potter."

Harry sighed in relief.

 _Good_ , Harry thought, _because I probably can't afford to pay for all this damage._

"This is most unusual, you understand."

Harry looked back at the man, having no idea what was at all usual in this strange new world.

"I have never failed to match a customer with a wand. Sometimes I get the match quickly, sometimes not. I have no other wand that could possibly be a match for you. …And that last," Ollivander shook his head in disbelief, "I had thought it would be the one." He looked squarely in Harry's eye.

"It was the brother wand to the Dark Lord's," Ollivander explained. "I had expected you to match with that wand since I heard of his defeat, but it would seem that is not the case. No indeed," he said softly, looking at where the Holly wand had exploded.

Harry wasn't quite sure what to say to that. He already had enough to think about today, and did not need to add brother wands or anything like that to his list.

The fact remained, however, that Harry still needed a wand. So the question was…

"…So what now, sir? I mean," he explained to Ollivander's questioning look, "I still need a wand, and I really don't want to go to any of those other shops." Harry bit his lip, actually quite frustrated that things had gotten so out of hand. "Can you still help me?"

Ollivander's face became gleeful at the question, and didn't at all look like he was recently dug out of the grave, but was in fact quite young. Harry had to wonder if this was part of being magical, but could do no more than that, because Ollivander suddenly started rambling like a loon.

"Oh ho!" he exclaimed, making a quick jaunt behind the cluttered counter to gaze fondly at his shop. "Mr. Potter, I do believe indeed that I can still help you, as you say. Oh, yes of course," he said, looking at his wands, "well, it's been done before for the truly exceptional, you know, often at their own request or if they are in need of a replacement and are willing to pay the extra," he explained, but Harry doubted he was talking to him—because he had no idea what he was talking about—and was rather talking to his wands, "but, yes, of course."

And he suddenly cut off his rant and focused quickly on Harry. "Because you already are exceptional, aren't you, Mr. Potter?" he asked sharply. He continued slowly. "You aren't like the rest. There are things about you, things that you can do...things…things that others can't. But there's more, too. Well, yes, of course there's more to you, but, there's _more_ , isn't there?"

For the first time in his life, Harry felt like somebody had just examined his soul and judged him honestly and without prejudice, and he could only stand there frozen in place.

Was there something _more_ to Harry, as Mr. Ollivander had guessed? Well, there was certainly something to him. He could do things, things, Harry suspected, not very many other people could do, even among wizard kind. And he definitely wanted to do more, he wanted to learn more, and he wanted to be more than he already was. He wanted to be the best, prove to everyone else that _he_ , Harry James Potter, wizard, was deserving of his powers.

But there was something _more_ than that. Definitely. He just didn't know what it was yet.

Apparently, Mr. Ollivander found Harry worthy, because the old man wore a rather satisfied smile on his face and nodded at Harry.

"Excellent. Now, follow me." And he walked into the dark depths of his shop, leaving Harry standing among the smoldering ruins of the storefront.

Moving quickly around the counter, Harry slowed down and cautiously crept deeper into the unending stacks, realizing for the first time that there was no way the store could be that big, because from the outside it just seemed so small, but apparently not…perhaps everything in the wizarding world was…how to put it…bigger on the inside?

Eventually Harry had made it through the musty shelves and came upon a rather peculiar…workroom? Yes, it was definitely a workroom. There was a bench and some tools. But then, everything else, well, perhaps all wizards kept such strange things around….

"Mr. Potter," Ollivander's voice broke Harry out of his musings, "welcome to my workroom, where my family has for centuries crafted the finest wands in the British Isles."

For the first time in hours, Harry grinned, understanding just how big a deal it was for him to be where wands were made.

"Now," Ollivander said loudly, _clapping_ his hands, "let us begin. Go over to that wall and bring back a block of wood."

Harry looked to where Ollivander had nodded and saw a large wall of shelves, holding up hundreds of blocks of wood. Intrigued, he moved over and studied the blocks, sensing them tingle with magic. Beginning at one end, Harry ran his hand along the wall and stretched out his senses, stopping occasionally if he received a notable reaction from the wood. By the time he got to the end, Harry was puzzled.

There were quite a few reactions he got from the magical wood, not all of them good, but all of them strong. Some felt hot, or cold, or even sickly, others just buzzed. But he had expected that, given the hours in the storefront and the reactions he got from the wands.

He was puzzled because one of the white woods gave off a reaction that made it seem as though it wanted to fight the other woods so that it could get to Harry. Like it was desperate. And he was hardly prepared to anticipate or deal with that sort of reaction.

 _Are these things alive_?

But who was he to question the magic of the wood? Shrugging, Harry plucked the block from its fellows and made his way over to Ollivander, wondering at the anticipation in the man's eyes.

The old man gave a soft gasp. "Yew," he whispered. "Oh my…" Ollivander peered at Harry as though he had never seen him before—as if they hadn't just spent the past almost four hours together—and seemed to come to a decision. "I would never have guessed… It seems that we can expect great things from you, Mr. Potter, great things.

"A wand of Yew is exceedingly rare; it is said to endow its possessor with the power of life and death, and it is only matched to exceptional witches and wizards, those who are neither timid nor mediocre," he explained softly.

"He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was indeed an exceptional wizard; he did great things…terrible, yes, but great. It will be up to you to decide what great deeds you are known for…."

Harry swallowed heavily, not at all appreciating any comparison to his parents' murderer but at the same time unspeakably nervous about what was to come. But before Harry could ask any questions…

"Now, follow me," Ollivander ordered.

Ollivander walked over to the other side of his workroom and pulled open an unusually wide drawer and opened a tall and rather narrow cabinet, revealing jars and glass cases of…stuff.

Harry went to get a closer look. There was so much in the drawer Harry couldn't believe it.

Each container had a label, denoting what Harry assumed to be potential wand cores. Sparkly Fairy wings, brightly colored Fwooper feathers, some kind of teeth, golden Griffin heartstings and red Griffin feathers, purple Kelpie hairs, silvery-white Unicorn hairs, golden Sphinx heartstrings, dark red dragon heartstrings of various types, Cockatrice feathers, red and gold phoenix feathers, a grey Chimaera scale, Thestral hair—although it appeared Ollivander didn't have any more of those—both steely and bronze Hippogriff feathers, weird looking Demiguise hairs, yellow Nundu Heartstrings, and black Manticore heartstrings.

The cabinet held other things too. Jars of liquids. Basilisk venom, Dragon blood, a vial of Phoenix tears, Runespoor venom, troll bile, Re'em blood, Manticore venom, Manticore blood, Chimaera blood. And…many parts that looked quite gross.

Harry couldn't suppress a great shiver that went down his spine. He was also quite impressed—it was an excellent collection, and likely priceless. He doubted very much that most any other wandmaker he visited could offer him such high-quality service.

 _Excellent_.

"The vast majority of Ollivander wands have a phoenix feather, unicorn tail hair, or dragon heartstring core," Ollivander explained to Harry in his soft voice.

"This isn't always the case though. To say nothing of the rarity of viable source material, witches and wizards are prone to specializations—they have natural and robust affinities for certain kinds of magic—and sometimes this is extreme, which, as the case may be, necessitates something a little something more in a wand if it is to find its match.

"Oftentimes, this happens as the bond between a wizard and his wand grows as they share in powerful experiences together, in other words, as the magic of both wizard and wand develops, but only rarely does a customer need such special attention for their first wand," he said, looking at Harry as though he were an particularly fine curio.

"Now, most of these ingredients"—Ollivander waved grandly at the containers—"are purely for my own experimental purposes; however, they are, of course, available if there is a strong enough connection to a customer. Go ahead."

Harry stepped over toward the drawer and looked at the cases of cores. There were so many, and they were all so magical… He slowly swiped his right hand over the cases, letting loose a deep breath and closing his eyes and feeling out for the _right_ reaction. Warm, cold, cold, colder, icky, yucky, warmer, gross, warm, cold, hot, hotter.

Harry stopped. There it was again. Fighting to get to him. And Harry _wanted_ it.

"This one, sir," he pointed out to Ollivander.

The old Wandmaker picked up the narrow glass case and held it aloft, smiling. "A heartstring from an Indian Nağin," he whispered, eyes sparkling. "You become more interesting by the minute, Mr. Potter."

Harry shuffled his feat, not quite sure how to respond to that—so he didn't, and asked a question that would likely redirect Ollivander's scrutiny away from him.

"Uh, what's a-a Nağin, sir?"

Ollivander smiled at the question. "An Indian Nağin is a purplish, two-headed dragon. A most curious species, the heads look more serpentine than draconian, and the body as a whole is rather sleeker than any other type.

"Each head has its own distinct personality, and they are said to be foils of each other—life and death, good and evil, male and female, that sort of thing. As most dragons have, it has taken on a rather mythical role in certain cultural spheres—and I think you'll agree that it certainly offers the opportunity for such embellishments with its distinct characteristics—but that is not what I can tell you about.

"What is certain, however, is that it is an ancient and terribly dangerous breed, and that, to the untrained eye, it would be very difficult indeed to tell the difference between either head, yet the difference is there all the same.

"Now, dragon wands are, as a rule, the most powerful, and tend to produce the most flamboyant spells, and they are also the quickest learners. All in all, a good match, I think," he concluded merrily.

 _That sounds pretty damn cool_ , Harry thought to himself, smiling slightly. And indeed, learning not only that dragons were real but that a piece of one's heart was going into his wand was hardly what he had expected when he walked into Mr. Ollivander's shop, it was just so fantastic!

Ollivander grinned, apparently seeing Harry's excitement plainly. "I'm very much looking forward to the finished product," he said, giving a light chuckle.

"Now! You must leave me to my work. Your wand will be ready for you in a few days, and I will owl you then. Good evening." And he turned his back on Harry began setting up his work station.

Caught off guard by the abrupt dismissal, Harry stared bemusedly at Ollivander's back.

Forgetting any lingering questions in lieu of finding somewhere to spend the next few days, Harry sighed and began walking to the front of the shop. But—

"Mr. Potter!" Ollivander called.

Harry turned around to look at the man, seeing him still busy over the bench.

"Might I suggest that you head on over to Flourish and Blotts and pick up some history books?" he asked lightly. "Knowledge is power, after all."

That sounded like an _excellent_ idea to Harry.

"Thank you, sir. I'll be sure to do that. Good night."


	3. A Waking Nightmare

Harry shot up away from his pillow, sweaty and breathing heavily like he had just run a marathon. He had a nightmare—one which he hadn't had in a long time—one which he could now put into context. And he wasn't sure if the knowledge comforted him or not.

A terrified, feminine scream. Horrible, high, cold laughter. A flash of green light.

His mother's murder. His mother Lily. Murdered. He remembered it.

She wasn't killed in a car accident at all. And people—he had read—had nothing but good things to say about her. And his father, too. His father James.

He was murdered, too. No drunken car accident for him either. Nope. Murder.

 _The Dursleys!_

Oh how he hated them even more. So much, so intensely, so indescribably acutely. The white-hot hatred flared inside him at the thought of those— _those_ _filthy creatures_ besmirching his parents' good names! He would make them pay!

For years— _years_!—he had hated his parents and cursed their memory for being so abysmally weak and careless and stupid enough to get killed in a car accident and leaving him with the Dursleys. Had hated his father for being drunken and stupid and jobless and his mother for being a whore and not caring about her family. That was gone now.

Completely.

Replaced by the crushing knowledge of what he had lost, and the eternal shame for ever believing the Dursleys' lies about them. How could he have been so stupid?! Nothing _they_ had ever said about him was the truth, so why would anything _they_ said about his parents be true either?

He wanted to pull his hair out and scream!

But it was worse than that. Still worse. Impossibly worse. Not only were his parents apparently good people who seemed to have loved him very much, but they were heroes! _Heroes_! There was truly no justice in the world if he had lived his life thus far hating his parents for their failures while the rest of the world—the magical world, the world of his parents, the one to which he belonged—had gone about lauding them, and practically canonizing their spirits!

Really… What the _fuck_?!

And what about him? He, Harry James Potter, wizard. Huh?

He was a hero, too. The biggest hero of them all, apparently. He was in the history books! There was even a large series of children's stories about his… _adventures_ , and his _magical fucking floating castle_ that he called home.

What?

Something was seriously wrong with…everything. Something was seriously wrong with everything.

Everything about his life as he knew it…was a lie. His parents. Their deaths. His scar (and wasn't _that_ something to think about?!). His family. The world. Harry himself.

His identity as he understood it was shot to hell. Completely and utterly ruined. What there was left was…well, the weak, tattered strips of his personality as he imagined it would have been if he had succumbed to the Dursleys' assaults—and also this…Boy-Who-Lived…thing. Because, surely, this was part of whom he was, as well, even if he didn't _know_ it yet, and couldn't at all relate to the loathsome, caricature of a person that was the Boy-Who-Lived.

At least, that was what he figured. Did he even have an identity anymore? There were books! So many books written about him! But rather than call him 'Harry James Potter', they often used 'The Boy-Who-Lived' as the name for the little shit character. Was he not even worth his name? Surely they were the same people. Right? There could only be one Harry James Potter with a lightning bolt scar and messy black hair and green eyes. Right? That was him.

It had to be.

But it wasn't. Not at all. He didn't have fantastical adventures. He didn't call a magical floating castle his home. And he didn't even wear glasses. He gardened. He got beat up. He lived in the cupboard under the stairs. How could he, Harry James Potter, exist at all when compared to all that, a storybook hero? Was he meant to be consumed by the character of the Boy-Who-Lived? Who was he, anymore?

Oh yeah, apparently, the Boy-Who-Lived also wore glasses. Was blind as a bat without them. Did that mean Harry would have to start wearing those hideous, round metal contraptions now? Was it not enough for people to steal his identity, but they had to tell him how he had to look?!

And was it normal for ten year olds _to have an identity crisis?!_

"AAAAAHHH!" he screamed, overcome by a raging storm of emotions.

Harry clamped his hands on the sides of his head and screamed again. He rocked violently forward, and then back, _cracking_ his head against the ugly blue and white striped wallpaper that covered his rented room, taking comfort in the sudden pain that temporarily managed to overwhelm his panic. And what a panic it was. Even in his wildest dreams he had never…

It was like some really fucked up fiction that was meant to be a fantasy but was actually a horror, and he was cursed never to stop reading it. His whole desperate life was laid bare before him in the pages of those stupid books. It was so pathetic that Harry almost wanted to cry.

Then, like lightning, a thought struck him.

 _Someone knew_.

All those books—and how ridiculous they were, even the history ones! There were no notes! Anywhere!—and how the artist seemingly knew _exactly_ what he looked like (save perhaps for the glasses thing and how skinny he was; after all, the protagonist of any story can't be a scrawny little kid, but a big, strong young man), and his letter—his Hogwarts letter—was addressed to: ' _The Cupboard under the Stairs_.'

Someone was playing a game with his fucking life, like it was all some sick joke! It felt very much like those instances from years ago when Vernon used to pretend to be nice to him after a beating, only to hurt him even more after he had finally been lulled into a false sense of security. Harry had learned that particular lesson quite quickly: Don't trust anyone, especially adults. Especially adults.

Well, it wasn't like he was one to trust anyone, really, or like he ever would for that matter, so there would not really be much of an effect on his behavior. But! But, there was new information now. About him, his life, his family, and…oh yeah, _magic_! Who was he kidding? Probably everything about him currently would have to change.

There was just so _much_ that he had to assimilate, though. There were obviously expectations of him, and they were seemingly high, if the adventures in the storybooks were anything to go by, and there were also the expectations he had of himself, which had just gone up exponentially.

But there was also such an opportunity for him now; the kind of once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that, if the hum of his magic was telling him anything, was likely to make-or-break the universe itself. Oh, Harry was _so_ excited. His previous rage temporarily forgotten, he began planning out his day.

First, he would need to go back to Gringotts and speak to someone about his family's holdings because, well, you know, apparently he was some kind of knight or something and his family was unspeakably wealthy, like all those _other_ families that had huge country estates and actual heraldry and maybe a slave or a hundred cultivating indigo and cotton on a plantation somewhere in America or Brazil before that all was outlawed. Harry couldn't help but laugh; apparently there was class conflict everywhere, even if all the people had _magic fucking powers_. So, yes, he definitely needed to speak to someone, and it seemed that the goblin bankers were the people he was looking for.

Then he'd have to go…shopping. Stopping midstride, Harry realized that he had been pacing for the past few minutes, which was odd, because he had never paced before, but decided to come back to it later in favor of his more pressing concerns, namely, that he had to go shopping. He had no qualm about the act of shopping, per se, but his experience of it had not been good, and also…well, he was alone. And that might be a problem.

It was quite unusual, he understood, for _children_ — and he used the term lightly because he had never been a child, he merely looked like one—were never ones to go about _shopping_ by themselves. Sure, they ran away from their guardians, but that was the point—they had guardians, people who were responsible for them.

Harry had never had the pleasure of that experience.

And wouldn't it just draw all kinds of attention to him if someone realized that not only was he shopping without a guardian, but that he was _Harry fucking Potter_? Ridiculous. He was practically baby Jesus to every witch's uncle. Harry had seen on the television the crowds for when the Pope came to town, and he really, really, really didn't want to imagine what sort of _absolute chaos_ there'd be if it was made known that Harry was out and about.

This was a big problem, now that he thought about it. There was no way the goblins would give him control of his family's estate. First, he had no identification—and he seriously doubted that some old faded scar would help him out there. Second, he was _ten fucking years old_!

A serious problem, indeed.

But wait… Yes. That might work. Whenever anyone around Little Whinging had a serious problem—like when Mr. Number 12's wife caught him having an affair with Mrs. Number 7, or when Ms. Number 1 didn't pay her parking tickets on time—they always contacted a solicitor. And though he likely didn't have nearly enough money on hand to employ one at the moment, there was a good chance that the prospect of making much more money—because Harry was due to come into a _lot_ of it, it seemed—would entice them enough to be helpful.

He had a plan.

~Dragon Chronicles~

After eating ravenously of the food he had stolen from Number 4, Harry prepared himself for a long day. He showered, brushed his teeth, put on some of his less-ruined clothes, donned a rather unexciting grey _dress_ he had bought after leaving Ollivander's shop the day before in hopes of blending into the other shoppers—he still couldn't get past the fact that witches and wizards wore dresses everywhere (to say nothing of the fact that they were deluding themselves by calling them _robes_ )—and then tried and failed to tame his hair, he slinked out of his rented room at The Howling Monkey and made his way downstairs.

The common area was dimly lit by a lone, _crackling_ fire, and a slight haze of grease from the breakfast and smoky ash made its way around the ceiling as if moved by invisible ceiling fans. The place didn't disgust Harry to the extent that The Leaky Cauldron did, and that was probably the only reason why he hadn't just slept outside. One would think that, with magic, cleaning apparently wouldn't be so difficult or troublesome that _so many things_ would be dirty and grimy and send a chill of disgust down Harry's spine, but it was not to be. _Alas_.

Looking around, Harry began his search. He had to get a newspaper and look at the advertisements because, if the magical world was anything like the muggle one, there'd likely be some information about a solicitor's office that would point him in the right direction.

Chances were that there'd probably be something close by, actually, given how expansive the magical district seemed to be. And wouldn't that be convenient? Maybe he could find an accountant in the same building, even?

 _Hah, as if_ —

— _A newspaper_! _Excellent_.

Harry opened up the newspaper—The Daily Prophet, apparently—and started perusing it. He was quite shocked, and then very excited, when he saw the pictures moving. _Moving pictures_! _Of course_! _Because, why not_? Oh, how he wanted to do magic right then and there. Maybe he could make the words move? Or make the paper sing the words to him? _Or maybe_ —

Harry sighed. He had been too easily distracted recently. It was unacceptable. He had to stay on task. Especially as things stood. He could be in danger from Death Eaters, if the half dozen history books he tore through last night were to be believed, or even from whomever the fuck had decided that leaving him with the Dursleys was a good idea. Harry clenched his teeth. He still needed to get information about that. He was not about to let that injustice fall by the wayside.

And he was doing it again!

AH!

Harry took a deep breath and calmed down, idly noticing that the window panes near him had _rattled_ slightly. Perhaps his…unsettled state of mind was the price to pay for being given the chance to have a new life. If that was the case, then fine. Because, sure, the scientist within Harry understood that lots of shocks in a relatively small amount of time would mess with anyone's head and cause them some measure of disquiet. It was acceptable in the short term, at least.

 _Ah_ , _excellent_. He found something promising.

Both a solicitor's office _and_ an accountant's office, and they were quite close to one another. And he didn't even need to send an owl to arrange for an appointment, which was fortunate, because he still needed to buy one of those.

Harry didn't even want to think about how strange it was to use owls to communicate. He probably wouldn't eat for days he'd be so distracted.

 _Oh look_ , the solicitor had office hours currently. _How fortuitous_.

Standing from his seat, Harry glanced one last time at the address printed with the advertisement—312 Horizont Alley—and made his way outside into the morning sun.

The door _creaked_ something awful as Harry opened it, but his attention was immediately caught by the wonderful vista as he saw it from his position on the threshold.

Unbidden, a ridiculously happy smile lighted Harry's face. He was a _fucking wizard_! Ha ha! This was so cool.

People were already milling about, opening stores, setting up stalls, and going about their early shopping. The _click_ - _clacking_ of people's shoes on the cobblestone street joined in with the gentle _hum_ of conversation to create a busy atmosphere for the quiet morning. Off in the distance some bees were _buzzing_ seemingly in synch with the wavering haze of the morning dew. The sun shone brightly and hard and prickled the pale skin on Harry's face. It was definitely going to be a hot day.

Turning down Horizont Alley, Harry had to rethink his opinion of wizards. A few times.

The street itself was rather curvy—never running straight. The buildings were jutting up from the ground at strange angles and curves, sometimes their rooves were almost facing the building across the street from them, or they looked like someone had gripped their tops and twisted them like pretzel dough, or like they had been given a push and were about to fall over into another street. In other words, nothing about the place was _horizontal_. Or mostly vertical, for that matter.

On the one hand, it nearly scared the shit out the Harry. How did the buildings stay up? Hadn't anyone ever heard of gravity?! And then he realized that it was only through magic that the buildings had managed not only to look like they did, but also _stay_ that way. On the other hand, magic seemed to make pretty much anything possible, and this was a pretty awesome example of that, if a little irrational in a modern-art-kind-of-way.

This magic stuff would take some getting used to.

312 Horizont Alley looked like it was a store straight from Portobello Road in London, and it certainly wouldn't have looked out of place in the colorful and famous shopping district, except, of course, for the fact that the building was angled about twenty degrees to its left.

 _Seriously_ , Harry thought, _there's quirky, and then there's crazy_. _And wizards are definitely crazy_.

Hesitating only slightly, Harry grasped the brass doorknob and opened the door, almost tripping on the skewed frame.

One quick gaze told Harry that—thankfully—the inside wasn't all crazy like the outside, so chances were that he'd likely avoid a massive headache from feeling like he was trapped in an M.C. Escher painting. Which was good news.

The bad news?

There didn't seem to be an assistant to direct him, which meant that he likely would have to explore the building until he found his quarry, which was an inconvenience, but not terrible. With luck, he wouldn't walk in on something inappropriate or embarrassing.

Moving into the downstairs section, Harry saw a rather nice sitting room with tasteful arrangements that left quite a bit of space open in front of the fireplace…where there were footprints in the soot leading _from_ the grate.

 _What_?

Was this just another instance of wizards not cleaning or did fireplaces experience foot traffic?

 _Ha_! _How ridiculous_.

Past a bathroom—where instead of a little blue man and a little red woman on the door, there was a dancing wand and a smoking cauldron—an open door revealed a spacious office where the walls were absolutely covered with framed newspaper clippings and certificates and books and books and books.

The desk was besieged by paperwork, and even the two chairs where ordinarily clients would sit were weighed down with towers of binders full of information that were teetering precariously over the edge. It was madness. If this was a look into how it would be to manage an estate or be a solicitor, Harry was glad for the sneak-peek. He now knew what he _never_ wanted to do professionally!

But he still had to find the proprietors. Perhaps upstairs?

The stairs were unusually _creaky_ , one had even _groaned_ when he stepped on it, so Harry was only too glad that he was light of foot, lest he might have fallen through if the climb collapsed. That would have been painful. Regardless, he made it to the second floor unscathed, and proceeded to look around. There was another sitting room up there too, with its own bathroom. And farther down the hall was another door, likely leading to an office. _Excellent_.

 _Knock_ - _knock_.

Nothing but an uneasy stillness. _Interesting_.

 _Knock_ - _knock_ - _knock_.

 _That_ got a reaction.

Inside the office Harry heard what sounded like quick _rustling_ , a collapse of what was presumably a pile of papers if the _thwack_ - _shh_ was anything to go by, and harsh, urgent whispering.

 _How curious_. _Bet they're wishing they had a secretary, now_ , Harry thought humorously, smirking slyly.

A gruff cough caught Harry's attention, and he schooled his face. It wouldn't do to have a first meeting go poorly because they thought he was laughing at them. Even if he actually _was_ laughing at them.

 _He-he_.

The door opened swiftly, revealing a kind-faced, pot-bellied man and a dark haired woman who gave off such a superior air that Harry had the sudden urge to bow for her, but then it was gone, and he was left feeling only horribly out of place in his drab, second-hand robes and messy hair.

Shaking his head slightly, Harry took another look at the strangers. Their shock that a child had come to meet them was apparent, and Harry was glad he had not owled ahead. No doubt they would not have taken him seriously, and he would have been out of luck. But now? Now, he had his foot in the door, so to speak, now he had a chance to make his move and get what his rightfully his.

Harry gave them a small smile and stuck out his hand.

"Hello, I'm Harry Potter, and I'm in need of a solicitor and an accountant. May I presume that you are Mr. and Mrs. Tonks?" he asked politely.

The Tonkses looked at Harry blankly, not even acknowledging his outstretched hand. A little miffed, Harry peered at the two more closely and extended his senses. Perhaps if he got a read off of them he might be able to direct the conversation in his favor before they could throw him out the door.

Mr. Tonks was…like a jar full of laughing honey. That didn't' really inform Harry of anything much besides, perhaps, that he was an amenable sort. The man's warm brown eyes, however, clued Harry in a bit more. There was surprise, disbelief, and wonderment. And a strange image of…something. _Not important_. In other words, there was nothing Harry couldn't work with.

As for Mrs. Tonks, she gave the impression that she was a particularly regal wolf, with a veiled penchant for exceptional cuddliness. Her grey eyes were…blank. What? And now Harry was getting no feeling from her at all. How—

Mrs. Tonks jerked away from him in abject shock. And Harry could only mimic her. How had she been able to do that? Only ever had Mr. Ollivander been able to detect Harry's mind reading trick, and that had been after he had seen quite a bit in the man's mind. Harry simply guessed that he had only been caught that time because the shifting images set off some reaction in his subject's mind, but perhaps that was not what was going on. Damn! He needed more information! How could he have been so stupid!? Now she knew what he was capable of. _What if_ —

"Hello," Mrs. Tonks said, her clipped voice drawing her husband's attention.

 _Shit_.

She was glaring at Harry.

 _Shit_. _Shit_. _Shit_.

"Uh—"

"Hello, uh, Mr. Potter," Mr. Tonks said, drawing Harry's and his wife's attention. He was looking between them, apparently aware of his wife's frosty greeting yet decidedly confused about it.

Perhaps Harry wouldn't have to negotiate from a weak position after all. If he could get the husband on his side chances were that the man could get his wife to be amenable to a business relationship too.

 _Yes, that would do_.

Harry smiled innocently at the man, thankful for the opportunity.

"Greetings. I hope I haven't interrupted anything. I can come back another time if this is inconvenient for you. The advertisement said—"

"Oh, no, that won't be necessary, Mr. Potter," Mr. Tonks assured him, looking rather embarrassed as he drew up his arm and ushered Harry into the room, heedless of the looks they both were getting from the man's wife. "Why don't you take a seat and we can talk about why you're here—uh, why you're here as you are and not, well, yes," he finished awkwardly, catching his wife's eye.

As Harry sat down he caught Mrs. Tonks' eye too, and really wished that Mr. Ollivander had already finished with his wand so that he wouldn't be vulnerable for much longer. That was a problem that needed fixing. _Soon_.

Harry smiled shyly at her, and he wasn't even totally faking it. The woman was drop-dead gorgeous, and was obviously part of the aristocracy (though her husband…), and Harry was definitely embarrassed that he had been caught trying to read her mind, so he allowed some of that to leak through. If her husband saw it—

Mr Tonks _clicked_ his tongue. "Andromeda, stop scaring the boy!" he laughed. "Look at him, he's harmless," Mr. Tonks said jovially, drawing up a seat on the other side of the desk. "Now, sit down with me, dear, so we can talk to Mr. Potter."

Mrs. Tonks gave Harry another long look before joining her husband. Harry just kept smiling at them both, but inside, he was quite nervous. He had already made a great mistake with the wife, and it would be a total disaster if the husband got wind of exactly _why_ Mrs. Tonks was so being rude.

"Now, um, you say that you are Harry Potter, yes?"

Harry nodded his head at Mr. Tonks, still smiling.

"Well, forgive me, but, do you have any proof?"

 _Damn!_ He knew this would be an issue. What the hell was he supposed to do now? He had absolutely no proof. Hell, he doubted Petunia even had proof that he was Harry Potter. He had no choice. They couldn't be mean to a poor little orphan boy, could they?

Harry let out a small sigh. "I'm sorry sir, but I'm afraid I don't," he answered in a truly pathetic voice.

Mr. Tonks smiled weakly at Harry as if he had expected that was the case, and turned to his wife, who was looking at Harry queerly.

Harry did his best not to squirm in his seat. The woman's look was most unsettling. He had to think of something to get back control of the conversation before they came up with a reason to throw him out. Perhaps he didn't appear to be wretched enough? Could he surprise them again?

"You see sir, ma'am, I only found out about magic yesterday"— _that_ got their attention. _Yes_!—"and I'm afraid I'm in rather a bit of a predicament. I need to get my school things, and I'm worried the coins I have left might not cover the cost of everything I need.

"Apparently, my family left behind _quite_ the estate, a fact I found out last night reading _The Triumph of Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived_ , which also contained other interesting things like, for instance, that my parents were murdered and not killed in a car crash as I had been led to believe, and that apparently I've been living in a magical floating castle having all sorts of wonderful adventures with my tutor, the time-traveling super mage Merlin." He let out a truly pathetic sigh and he looked at the Tonkses with wide eyes.

"Can you can help me?" he asked hopefully, desperately trying not to let show that he was actually rejoicing at the looks on their faces.

Oh, was he good. _So good_.

"What?" Mrs. Tonks asked loudly, losing her icy composure.

Her husband, meanwhile, was doing a passable impression of a fish. He was rather funny.

Harry smiled a tad condescendingly at Mrs. Tonks, and said, "Yes."

She looked back uncomprehendingly.

Perhaps he ought to try her husband? What could he use? He had seen the man's office. It was a mess. But something stood out. He remembered what those colors meant. Admittedly, he was reading those magazines to aid in his study of Statistics, but….

"I know what you mean sir," Harry said, nodding slightly at the man even though he hadn't actually said anything, "it's pretty unbelievable. I mean, just imagine, waking up one morning and you find out that you're more famous than Alan Smith, Liam Brady, Perry Groves, and Frank Stapleton combined"—shocked recognition, excitement. _Ha_! And Mrs. Tonks knew those names too, but Harry only heard her give a low groan—"and to top it off, you find out that you have magical powers. You never expect it to happen, and then suddenly it does."

Harry turned his attention to Mrs. Tonks. Perhaps some honesty? "I quite sure that the last thing you imagined when you woke up today was that I would walk into your office building, interrupt you and your husband"—what that a blush he saw?—"try to read your mind, and explain how I came into the magical world and just how much help I need. Am I right?"

She nodded. "Yes, you are, Mr. Potter."

Mr. Tonks was looking between them cautiously, all mention of Arsenal FC and four of its most famous players forgotten. "Mind reading?"

Mrs. Tonks looked like she was going to answer, but Harry beat her to it, doing his best to sound contrite. "Yes, sir. It's something I've been able do to for about two years now. I've found being on my own in this strange world of magic to be more than a little unnerving"—and really, now that he thought about it, holy _fuck_ was he out of his depth here—"and so I'm afraid that I'm a little more on guard and suspicious of others than I normally am"—which was totally untrue. Harry had a theory that he was born a paranoid bastard, and that it only got worse as he aged. Maybe it had something to do with his magic? Hmm.—"so I'm sorry to say that when you both seemed so unsure and wary when you greeted me that I…extended my senses, as it were, just to be safe."

Mr. Tonks just looked like he didn't know what to make of any of what was going on. Mrs. Tonks…she just seemed like she was trying to take stock of everything Harry had said. He had regained control of the conversation, but now he needed them to participate in it and not just listen. Perhaps he should break the tension?

"If it's any consolation, sir, I'd like to inform you that the feeling I got from you was that you were like a large jar of laughing honey, and Mrs. Tonks was like a particularly regal wolf, and that she actually likes to cuddle a great deal, though you would never guess it at first glance."

Harry was expecting some embarrassment on the part of the Tonkses, or some light laughing at his ridiculous statement, so he was wholly unprepared for the deep belly-laugh that suddenly sprung from Mr. Tonks and the scowl that Mrs. Tonks shot his way before she hit her husband on the head with a rolled up newspaper.

 _Thwack_!

But it seemed Mr. Tonks was not to be deterred. The man's laugh was infectious, and Harry was hard-pressed not to smile in response.

"Oh, that's hilarious! Ha! Did ya hear that, Andy? You secretly like to cuddle!" The man actually _slapped_ his knee and bent forward, reaching for his wife's hand, grinning like a complete idiot.

"Yes, Ted, I did hear Mr. Potter's assessment of me," Mrs. Tonks responded primly. "Need I remind you that while I am apparently a dangerous and beautiful apex predator, you are little more than a poor imitation of Winnie the Pooh?" she asked dryly.

Mr. Tonks stopped laughing and gave a disgruntled _grunt_ , before he smiled happily again. "You know dear, that gives me an idea. We could use honey—"

"Ted!" Mrs. Tonks yelled, sounding mortified. "Shut up! We have a client, right now."

 _Yes_! Harry thought victoriously.

"So you'll take my case?" he asked before their argument could develop any further.

The Tonkses paused and turned to look at Harry synchronously, but he just smiled back. Things were going well. They hadn't really resolved the issue of his identity yet, but he was inside, and talking to them, and Harry hadn't even been in the room for more than fifteen minutes yet.

Harry felt a sudden urge to _cackle_.

 _How curious_.

"Um, well, I think—"

"What exactly is it that you are after, Mr. Potter?" Mrs. Tonks interrupted her husband, all previous levity gone from the room.

Harry appreciated her professionalism.

"Well ma'am, it's like I said before: I need access to my family's estate. The books I read last night seemed quite convinced that I've been living in the lap of luxury, as it were, and that, though they lack specifics, the Potter family is part of the upper-crust of magical society. Simply put, I want what's mine, and I'm willing to do what is necessary to get it."

Mrs. Tonks shifted in her chair, the wooden legs _scraping_ against the oak-paneled flooring.

"And your family? Where are they?"

Harry peered at the woman uncomprehendingly. "My family is dead ma'am. They were killed years ago."

Mrs. Tonks winced and sent Mr. Tonks a look that he seemed to understand.

"Yes, Lily and James. They were wonderful people," Mr. Tonks explained sadly, but then he smiled brightly. "Your dad had a wicked sense of humor."— _what_?—"Did you know when he was a little older than you are now that he charmed the stairs down the hall to _creak_ so that you'd think they were about to collapse? Yeah, he did it way back when Andy was pregnant with our daughter!" he laughed.

"I don't think she really forgave him he was nineteen and Lily told us that James was afraid of cats."

Mrs. Tonks smiled smugly at the reminder.

"Lily and Jimbo got along very well, I'll have you know. James simply should have learned to leave the cat alone."

Harry wasn't sure what to say. On the one hand, he was glad that he seemed to have found a solicitor who was willing to help him, though he was aware she hadn't actually agreed yet. On the other, he had just heard a story about his parents from people who apparently actually knew them quite well, it seemed.

 _His parents_.

He couldn't do this now. He—

"But what I think my wife meant was, what about your family you're living with now? The Muggles. Why aren't they here with you?" Mr. Tonks asked.

 _What?!_ How _dare_ he!

"I assure you, sir," Harry said icily, "I have no living family."

In response, Mr. Tonks did his fish impression again.

 _Perhaps that was a bit harsh_.

"May I assume sir, and ma'am, that you have taken me on as your client?" Harry asked, his voice clipped.

"Why won't you answer Ted's question, young man?" Mrs. Tonks asked.

Harry turned to look at her, not at all liking where the conversation was headed. "I believe I have. And before I say anything more, if, of course, I say anything at all, I want to ensure that you two are working for me, and that you can't go gossiping about my business without putting yourselves at risk and ruining your reputations."

He looked at both of them flatly, juggling an idea around in his mind. He really knew nothing about the law— pretty much except for how old one had to be to leave one's home and school legally—and he was now paying the cost of that ignorance. It would be a gamble, but then, what's a great reward without a little risk?

"I came to you both because I'm in trouble and I need help. As I understand it, I have a lot to gain by claiming my family's estate. Once that happens, I will need help managing it and also help protecting my interests. This is where you two come in.

"There's a lot of money to be made, if, and _only_ if, I can get what's mine. You can accept that, or I can walk out of here right now and find someone else. Do we have a deal?"

Mrs. Tonks looked rather stunned at being issued an ultimatum from a ten year old, but she also seemed to be thinking it over. Mr. Tonks was just looking at his wife as if he had already made up his mind.

Mrs. Tonks sighed heavily.

But Harry had one more trick up his sleeve.

"One-nil to the Arsenal," Harry chanted softly.

Mrs. Tonks gasped and looked at Harry, horrified at what she had heard. But it was Mr. Tonks' reaction which interested Harry the most. The man looked like Christmas had come early. He had—and this was what had been Harry's intention from practically the outset of the meeting—found what appeared to be a kindred spirit with Harry.

He couldn't completely stop a victorious smirk from working its way onto his face when he looked back at Mrs. Tonks. She knew she would lose any attempt to send Harry away now that her husband was so firmly aligned with him.

Harry had never guessed that sport could ever prove to be so useful.

"Excellent! I'm sure we'll have a most profitable relationship." Harry said grandly…or as grandly as any male could whose voice hadn't yet changed could. "Now, I imagine I have to sign something, yes?"

Mrs. Tonks drew herself up in her chair and whipped out her wand, causing Harry to tense—foolishly, he hadn't actually prepared any sort of response if someone used magic against him—but it wasn't to be, as a file zoomed across the room and landed on the desk. She opened the folder and looked up at Harry.

"This is a standard employment contract. Normally, there would be a one-thousand Galleon payment due at signing, but seeing as the whole point of this venture is, as you say, to get you your due, I think we can just add it to the final bill."

She looked at Ted and sighed. "This will cover our agreement to aid you in the recovery of your family's estate, but beyond that, we would need to create a new contract because, and correct me unless I am wrong, you seek to have both myself and Ted on retainer."

Harry considered her words and tried to come up with something that sounded officious. "I am in need of council and protection to handle my family's assets and my personal affairs, so if that's what you mean by 'retainer'"—seeing her nod, he went ahead—"then yes, that's what I would like."

Mrs. Tonks looked like she was about to say something else, but Harry cut her off.

"I imagine, what with this whole 'Boy-Who-Lived' thing," he said nonchalantly, "which I personally find unsettling, detestable, and more than a little irritating, that many people would not appreciate it if I were to be… _mishandled_ in my dealings with others—taken-advantage of, you might say—and that they would lead what I'm sure would be quite a public campaign to address the wrongs wrought against me."

Seeing he definitely had their attention, he continued. It was important this threat was delivered skillfully. He could not allow his ignorance to be too much of a weakness. "I doubt the good witches and wizards of Britain could bear to have their savior, doubtless a young, impressionable boy, be led astray by sharks."

He gave them a cold little smile. "Yes, it would certainly be a tragedy. Don't you agree?"

Mr. Tonks looked absolutely stunned, but Harry wasn't sure if that was because he had just been threatened by a fellow Arsenal FC supporter, or if it was because Harry was ten years old. Mrs. Tonks—impossibly—gave Harry a smirk! As if she enjoyed the game he was playing.

Perhaps he had seriously underestimated the woman. He would have to get better at reading people without actually _reading_ them.

Wait, it looked like she was gearing up to give a retort.

"Well Harry"—He never said she could call him Harry!—"considering that I've changed your diapers"— _What_!?—"that I've bathed you"— _Ah_!—"that you once ruined a new dress of mine after you threw up magically-resistant vomit all over it"— _How embarrassing! Wait. What was going on? This wasn't supposed to happen! No!_ —"and that you once peed all over my kitchen table in a fit of infantile pique"— _Never_!—"I daresay I know how to take care of you. After all, what are second-cousins, for?"

Silence.

Then Harry remembered to breath.

His voice was caught in his throat. And he couldn't take his eyes off the woman.

 _What_?!

How did that—how—she—what?

"What?"

Mrs. Tonks let out a long _cackle_ , causing her husband to look at her like she was crazy.

Harry was still shocked from what the woman had said to him. Cousins? Baths? Impossible! She had to be lying. All those books said there was no one left!

"Prove it."

Harry's voice cut through the office like a whip. He was taking no chances with the woman. But even if she was telling the truth, Harry doubted he'd know how to handle it. What would she expect of him? How would this affect what Harry wanted? These were pressing concerns.

Mrs. Tonks looked at him sadly, like a mother about to explain to her child that the pet wasn't on a farm, but had actually died and could never come back. Harry felt a sudden surge of anger at her. How dare she take pity on him!

He wasn't some scum off the street; he was Harry Potter, boy genius, wizard extraordinaire! So what if he knew practically nothing about his family or wizardry? That didn't make him inferior to anyone. He just had to catch up, and then they would all know….

"Your father James was born to Charlus and Dorea Potter in 1960. Dorea Potter used to be Dorea Black, my great-aunt. I was disowned from the Black family by my cousin, Arcturus Black III, who is still head of the family, because I married Ted here, against my family's wishes.

"Aunt Dorea still kept in contact with me despite this, and she and Charlus supported us in the early years of our marriage; they even gave us the money to start this business. I knew James quite well, and he and Lily would visit us and our daughter Nymphadora often, eventually bringing you along with them."

Mrs. Tonks sighed at the memory.

"I don't have any pictures of them here, but at home there are plenty if you would like to see. Your parents and grandparents were wonderful people, Harry. I miss them very much."

For some strange reason, Harry's eyes were itchy, and he couldn't understand why that was. Was he getting sick? Perhaps he should see about going to a physician. Maybe there were wizard ones? Surely there were.

Regardless, he had to seal the deal he had just made. If what she said was true and they were family, perhaps that might compel his new lawyer and her accountant husband to be loyal to him. And if he paid them very well in return for excellent work, Harry was sure that'd help, too.

Harry cleared his throat, refusing to acknowledge Mrs. Tonks' story. It wouldn't matter one way or another so long as they kept his secrets and did what he asked of them.

"Where do I sign?" he asked crisply.

Mrs. Tonks was still looking at him sadly, so Mr. Tonks pushed forward the contract and a…a feather? What the fuck was he supposed to do with a feather? _What_ —? _Oh_! _A quill_! … _Wow_. Harry had no clue how to write with one. This was going to be terrible.

And it was. Harry could hardly read his name on the parchment. And it _was_ parchment. There was no paper anywhere.

Harry hoped desperately that wizarding society was not as totally preindustrial as it looked.

~Dragon Chronicles~

The next several hours were spent going over a plan of action to secure for Harry his parents' estate, and by the end of the meeting Harry was quite sure that he had managed to charm the Tonkses enough that they would not betray him at the drop of a hat.

And there was also the contract, which, if he understood it correctly, would compel them to aid him until its parameters were met. As it was, Harry doubted he could do anything more for the time being to ensure that he could not be betrayed in some way.

It would have to do.

He hadn't really come to the meeting prepared, in part because there wasn't much for him to do to prepare, but regardless of that, Harry felt he had made significant progress in establishing himself in his new world: He would soon have a lot of money, a place to live permanently, and perhaps two strong allies which he could wield to good effect (it certainly didn't hurt that they likely felt some sort of familial loyalty toward him, either).

In short, Harry could definitely work with everything. It would be easy.

But, there were just some things Harry wasn't prepared to discuss. And for all his intelligence, even he couldn't anticipate everything. Particularly the things he couldn't really comprehend in the first place.

"Harry," Mrs. Tonks began hesitatingly, which sounded peculiar given her cultured accent and immediately caught Harry's attention, "I know Ted already asked you this but—where are the Muggles you've been living with?"

Mr. Tonks, too, was waiting for an answer, as he looked at Harry intently.

Harry had to suppress an indignant response. Wasn't the money he was paying these people enough? Why did they have to question him? He wasn't in their office to talk about _them_!

Harry sighed. He felt quite annoyed at the posing of the question—it wasn't any of their business—but he knew he would have to temper his reaction.

He answered in as polite a tone as he could manage. "I don't really see how that's any of your business, ma'am. I came here to discuss—"

"I know why you came here Harry," she interrupted, "but you're a child, and were it not for the fact that Muggles don't have any legal rights in Wizarding Britain we never would have accepted you as a client, despite the fact that you're family.

"Now," she declared, her voice becoming suddenly stern, "tell me where your family is so that we might discuss with them exactly why you seem to be handling complicated legal issues on your own when you should be at home."

 _How dare she_!

"And I would ask that you keep your personal opinions to yourself," Harry bit out, struggling to keep his anger in check. "I am not paying you to tell me how you think I should be, where I should be, and whom I should allow to handle my affairs!

"I have no family, and given my experience of living with others, I can say quite definitively that I don't particularly want one!

"And I also have no home, as of yet. Which was another reason I decided to employ your office. I refuse to rent a room in one of these disgusting taverns for any longer than absolutely necessary. I am on my own, and that's just fine with me."

Harry took in the Tonkses shocked faces.

 _It serves them right_ , _telling me about my own life_!

Harry noticed that he had risen from his seat and had balled up his fists. It was an unfortunate expression of emotion that he could allow to happen again. He would have to redouble his efforts to keep control of himself. It simply wouldn't do to blow up the room.

Reading had always calmed him down. Perhaps he could go pick out a few new books to hold him over until they were ready to make their move on Gringotts?

 _Definitely_.

He needed to leave. Now.

Harry took a deep breath and gave a disappointed sigh, hoping to convey his displeasure with the Tonkses in a more socially acceptable manner.

Harry drew himself up to his quite inconsiderable height and spoke. "I can see we're not getting anywhere right now, and I'm sure you two will be quite busy preparing to fulfill the contract, so I'll leave you to do your jobs. Good day."

Before either of Harry's new employees could recover from the abrupt end to the meeting, Harry fled the building with as much dignity and poise as he could muster.

Once his worn trainers hit the cobbles, Harry tore down the street and past all the other office buildings, seeking to put as much distance between himself and the Tonkses as possible. He wasn't ready to have any sort of conversation about _them_ , and he highly doubted he would ever want to talk about his previous life at all, let alone acknowledge it. Ever. Some things were better left forgotten. Especially if he was fashioning a new identity for himself which, as it happened, he had decided to do.

Meeting Andromeda Tonks was quite a wake-up call, for Harry. The lady was elegant, refined, and, as the aristocracy would say, had proper breeding. He admired her discipline. Harry would need to emulate her mannerisms if he was going to stake his claim in the magical world; he couldn't have people perceive him as some stupid little boy, after all.

He had to lose his soft estuary accent that was prevalent throughout Surrey—which basically sounded like Cockney that was easier on the ears—he had to purchase clothes that befit a wizard of his station, he had to cultivate as much knowledge as possible, he had to harness, somehow, the air of superiority that had made him want to bow for Andromeda.

In short, he had to internalize the lessons he likely would have had growing up with his parents and utilize them to become the Harry Potter he ought to be, the Harry Potter that would have undoubtedly made his parents proud, and he had to do it all inside of two months, before Hogwarts classes began.

He would never be 'Harry Potter, form the cupboard under the stairs' ever again. That weak person had died as soon as the letter from Hogwarts came, Harry realized now. If it wasn't for that letter, Harry never would have escaped from Privet Drive before he was sixteen and could do it legally and he would never have begun the search for his true potential. If that Harry Potter had thought himself strong, it only underscored how ignorant he had been. The new Harry Potter had magic, he was rich, he was famous, he had a history—he was special. The new Harry Potter was going to make history for being the greatest wizard there ever was, for being the most powerful sorcerer in the world, for making discoveries that changed the world, and producing feats of magic never before dreamt of.

 _Yes_.

He had a lot of work to do.

~Dragon Chronicles~

Flourish and Blotts was much more crowded than it was the previous evening, and it was obvious that it would be difficult maneuvering about once inside, but this annoyance turned out to be quite an opportunity for Harry, because now he could roam the entire store without the scrutiny of half the staff hampering him, being unlikely to stalk and question him when there were ten other customers waiting for help. This was very good, because he had an extensive shopping list.

Despite the fact that his relationship with Mrs. Tonks was not currently as he would like it, Harry would have to rely on her for legal advice for the time being. There simply was too much for him to do just then, so he could hardly familiarize himself with all the laws of the country. No, as much as he didn't like it, he couldn't do that, and he would have to trust his lawyer. Not to say that he wouldn't question her every step of the way, but for the ins-and-outs of centuries of statutes…

…perhaps one law book—something on inheritances—wouldn't go amiss in his growing library.

But! He had magic to learn. So much magic to learn. And he was desperate to start. Even if he didn't have a wand yet, he could certainly read all about what magic had to offer and what he would spend his school days learning.

 _Yes_. _That would be excellent_.

Swerving between bored children, annoyed adults, and overladen bookstands, Harry made his way around the large store, searching for wherever they kept books on the law. Fifteen agonizing minutes later, Harry was in the very back section of books on the third floor of the store. As it happened, law books were immensely unpopular, and so they were kept far away from the popular sections, lest customers' delicate sensibilities be offended.

 _The horror_!

Anyway, the book Harry was after was actually a worn and dusty three-volume set that totaled about four-thousand pages altogether. Hardly light reading, but it was what he needed. He placed the tomes—because they were that big and old—into the expanded bag—which was _very_ cool, in Harry's opinion, and he definitely wanted one like it—and he made his way back down the narrow, winding cast-iron staircase to where the other books he was after were likely to be.

The ground floor was still packed with witches and wizards—their odd sense of style was really beginning to make Harry feel distinctly uncomfortable—but he was able to get back to the stacks without much problem. Remembering the booklist Hogwarts had sent him, he made his way over to the Transfiguration section, as that was closest. He couldn't wait to see what this new subject was all about!

There was just one other person in the aisle he stopped in. A tall, handsome boy with well-styled black hair, probably a few years older than Harry, was looking at some book like it held all the answers to life's questions, and was utterly devouring its knowledge. Harry could appreciate the enthusiasm, as he himself felt that way about physics.

Perhaps he had found a kindred spirit? Did the boy study physics too? It was likely too much to hope for. As Harry understood it, it was quite uncommon for…people around his age to study physics, and he had no idea what wizards taught their children. Well… He very likely went to Hogwarts, so there was a chance that Harry could glean information from him about various things. It was worth a try, certainly.

And Harry couldn't forget that as The-Boy-Who-Lived he would have to have a greater degree of social interaction with his peer group than was his custom; certainly people were going to be swarming him because of his fame, and it would be quite silly of him if he was brusque with them. There was no need to alienate his schoolmates, after all.

That thought gave Harry pause.

 _Oh_.

Bother! He'd have to be tolerant of others, now! Of all the… Well, it could be worse. It was likely that there would be so many potential acquaintances that he'd be able to discriminate amongst them, so that he wouldn't have to deal with idiots who followed the crowd, the weak looking for protection, and the envious looking to share in his fame; in other words, the magical version of Dudley's gang. So, Harry would do the sensible thing and take the best of the lot!

But also… There was just something about the boy he was targeting; something…nice, and approachable. Harry had never felt that before, and to be honest, it kind of scared him because he didn't really know how to handle it (too accustomed, as he was, to dealing with people who were hostile to him), but the urge to satisfy the intrigue he felt was greater than his fear.

 _It would be agreeable to have a companion, perhaps_ , he allowed himself.

A conversation would be enough to tell if any of his thoughts were on the right track. (And anyway, it was only right for Harry to begin his collection now; the day was turning out to be one for gathering resources, after all, and an older boy who knew about Hogwarts was certainly worth the effort.)

Harry extended his senses to get a read off the boy as he prepared to engage in conversation with him. He was stubborn, intelligent, strong-willed, and slightly proud. Traits Harry was sure they had in common. But he needed to know more.

Harry began with a question. "A good book?"

The boy startled badly out of his reading and caught sight of Harry. He dipped his head a little and gave a short, deprecating laugh at having been caught in an embarrassing situation, shut the book he had been reading with a dull _clap_ , and walked over to Harry with a friendly smile on his face.

"Hello, I'm Cedric Diggory," he introduced himself. "And yes, it's quite a good book. Transfiguration is my favorite subject," Cedric said easily.

That was true, as far as Harry could tell.

"I'm—"

S _hit, do I tell him the truth? Fuck. This was a bad idea. Ah! I don't even have a plan. What do I do? What do I do?_

Perhaps a test of Cedric's intelligence was in order. Would the boy even take the bait?

—incognito."

Cedric opened his mouth to reply to the strange name when he stopped suddenly and a smirk graced his face.

"A spy, eh?" Amusement.

"We all serve at Her Majesty's pleasure."

"Are you on a secret mission?" Intrigue.

A faux-reluctant look crossed Harry face. "If I told you…"

Cedric's smirk grew. "…you'd have to kill me." Excitement.

"Is that worth the price of admission?"

"You assume you would be successful." Enjoyment.

"People tend to underestimate me," Harry explained with a slight smile, not acknowledging the book floating off a shelf and holding steady behind Cedric's head.

"Is being short part of your cover?" Playfulness.

"Is losing track of your surroundings part of yours?"

"What—"

At Harry's smirk, the book rapped lightly against the back of Cedric's head, causing the teen to spin around.

Cedric let out a startled _yelp_ and started looking around for someone—presumably a wizard in hiding. Harry took the opportunity of Cedric's distraction to slip the book the older boy was reading out of his hands and allowed it to fall open to what he assumed had been the page Cedric was last on.

(Harry wasn't sure if either the book was magical and simply _knew_ things like that, or if it was just the normal way a book would open naturally if a page had been read for a long time. Perhaps he could create a spell to put on books so they'd remember things like that? And now that Harry thought about it, he would have to buy a journal to keep track of all his new ideas—there were so many of them!)

Harry leaned back against one of the bookcases and perused the page while Cedric was still looking for the hidden wizard, all the while dodging the floating book that was playfully dogging his head.

"You know, Cedric, this is pretty interesting stuff," Harry commented lightly, trying desperately not to show his amusement at the scene in front of him. "Can you do this Switching Spell?"

Cedric turned to look at Harry incredulously. Perhaps he should have the book cease and desist?

A wave of his hand had the book floating back to its home on the shelf and Harry turned his attention back to the spell book he captured from Cedric. It was certainly an interesting read, but the description of this one spell seemed terribly complex. There was no picture to describe the oh-so-important wand movement, just three large paragraphs of very small print. And there was far too much ridiculous verbiage that obstructed learning rather than assisted in it to describe the actual theory of the magic of the spell worked.

Really, why did the author take two pages of text to explain something that was so glaringly simple? What was so hard to understand about: "Each object transplants the other; now make it work!"?

"What?" Cedric was dumbstruck.

Perhaps Harry had been a bit heavy-handed in their introduction—even he could admit that his personality was rather strong—but he had certainly enjoyed himself, and despite Cedric's current state, he was sure that he was having fun as well.

"Is something the matter Cedric?" Harry asked, trying to appear nonchalant as he flipped past some pages in the book _Intermediate Transfiguration_.

"How—What—Did you…how were you doing that?"

Was Harry really that impressive? Well, he himself certainly thought he was, but… Weren't all witches and wizards capable of making things fly? He had gotten control over that particular power when he was four and had to carry things that were too heavy for him to manage otherwise, and had only gotten better at it since. Surely that wasn't uncommon?!

One look at Cedric's eyes was more than enough to answer his question.

Shocked.

How should he handle this? It simply wouldn't do to have his first attempt at making a peer contact be an unmitigated disaster…

Harry shrugged lightly. "It's something I've been able to do for a while now. Honestly, I thought a lot of people could do those sorts of tricks." He gave Cedric a false smile to give off the impression that he was shy. "I'm sure you can do pretty cool things too, right?"

For his part, Cedric looked at him like he had two heads, but then—

Cedric gave a short, astonished laugh. "Uh, well I can't really do wandless magic at all, but my parents told me I had a few interesting episodes of accidental magic as a kid. Our cat's been afraid of heights for about seven years now, as Dad always reminds me."

Harry chuckled good-naturedly. "And the Switching Spell?"

"I've never actually tried that one yet—Professor McGonagall said we'd be doing it around November—but Transfiguration is my favorite subject so I always try to stay ahead." Cedric paused, peering at him closely. "Are you a first year?"

Harry assumed so.

"Oh, well in that case you'll be wanting _A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration_ by Emeric Switch," Cedric explained, pulling the book from the shelf. "It's rather basic, though. I always had to go to the library to find other resources that explained things better, you know?"

Harry took the book, giving Cedric back his own.

"Thanks Cedric," he said with a slight smile. "Are you looking for any other books?"

Cedric smiled. "Yes I am, actually. I'm going into my third year at Hogwarts so I'll need to get all the other intermediate books, as well as the ones for my electives." He looked around again. "Are you, uh, here alone?"

This was slightly dangerous territory. Harry decided to play it cool and smiled nicely. "Well, I'm a voracious reader so it only made sense that I came here ahead." He sighed despondently. "Apparently I am the only one who could spend an entire day in a bookstore and not consider it time wasted."

Cedric laughed at that. "Well it sounds like you'll be a right proper Ravenclaw, then, my friend. Would you like to go get our books?"

Harry grinned triumphantly.

"Oh, please, can we?"

Author's Note:

Hello! I hope that you all have received this story positively and are interested in seeing it develop further. I know these three chapters have come quickly (and bear in mind that this pace will not hold), which is in part due to the fact that they were mostly written already, but largely because I'd like to hear what readers have to say if they have access to a large sample of the story up front, rather than just the first chapter (which is mostly exposition, anyway).

Moving on, I certainly plan to have the pace of the plot quicken—I know it seems like I've been dragging things out, and perhaps I have been—but I'm attempting to develop Harry's character evenly, as opposed to, say, throwing in a paragraph to summarize his personality and his thoughts on everything and everyone, which is far too easy for me to write for it to be worth very much of your time were you to read it.

The things which happen in these chapters will be important for the development of the rest of the story. Harry's had a rather violent life, which is not as uncommon as one might think, and his life is only going to get more violent. Harry's wand is going to be vital to the plot later on in terms of the symbolism of the dragon. This Harry is not canon!Harry, this is Dragon!Harry, his personality is in flux because he's going through some major shocks and he's just run away from the only shelter he has ever known on some crazy adventure. Also, he's kind of an asshole (though given his age the term might be 'little shit'), and there is much more evidence of that fact yet to come.

Also, and perhaps I should have stated this in a note after the first chapter, I am attempting to recreate the Potterverse with this story—to make it bigger and better. There are a lot of problems with the world JKR built, such as a population of 10,000ish not being sustainable and the convoluted economic system to name a few, and I'd like to try my hand at correcting it in my own humble way.

(This is going to be a political story, certainly, but there will be lots of magic, violence, and references to literature, science, history, and philosophy along the way. It's rather ambitious, if I might say so.)

This story will not have Harry paired with another male character (I already have a pairing in mind, but it will take a really long time for that to come into play because, like, Harry's eleven!), however I will not promise that none of the other characters will be in homosexual relationships; they're teenagers, so who really knows what they do? That being said, I will not write those nauseating 'Lemons'; this story is rated M for violence, language, and adult themes which might not be suitable to children under the age of sixteen, not because I have a dirty mind (which I do) and want to write about teenagers fucking each other.


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